


Silver Needle, a White Tea Romance

by okapi



Series: Twelve Cups of Tea [3]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Accidental Voyeurism, Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Dreams, F/F, Fem!John - Freeform, Fem!Lestrade, Fem!Sherlock, Fem!mycroft, Lots of Dream/Fantasy Sex, Love at First Sight, Masturbation, Non-Consensual Voyeurism, Romance, Tea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-25
Updated: 2014-08-29
Packaged: 2018-02-06 04:31:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 26,666
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1844497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okapi/pseuds/okapi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is the younger sister of the Emperor's closest advisor, his Tea Master. For impudence in the Imperial Court, she is exiled to a far eastern province to oversee the harvest of the Emperor's prized white tea, called Silver Needle. There, she falls in love with one of the white-gloved peasant maidens designated to pluck the tea. </p><p>A once upon a time, love at first sight genderswapped AU romance.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Exile

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Silver Needle (Bai Hao Yin Zhen), a very fine white tea from the Fujian province of China. This story will pull from ancient lore about its cultivation during the Song dynasty (960 - 1127 AD) and current production methods.

Once upon a time, in a land far away, lived an emperor who ruled over a vast, lush terrain. Every province in the empire offered annual tribute to the Emperor and his Imperial Court. More than fine silks, precious stones, or luscious fruits, the Emperor desired tea.

The emperor so adored tea that he designated a Tea Master, who oversaw tea cultivation and production and ensured that the Emperor received the choicest selections of harvests. Teas came from across the realm: smoky dark teas from the north, pungent green teas from the west, crisp yellow teas from the south. Above all, however, the Emperor loved a white tea called Silver Needle, which grew in the eastern province. Every year, he waited like a bridegroom on his wedding night for the arrival of spring and his beloved Silver Needle.

Now, Tea Master was a minor position in the Imperial Court, ostensibly of no prestige or status. However, only the Tea Master was allowed to prepare the Emperor’s tea. Oftentimes, the Emperor would dismiss his royal advisors and members of the Imperial family and simply take tea with the Tea Master. They discussed politics, philosophy, and science as well as the latest Court intrigue. As the Emperor grew older, he relied more and more on the Tea Master’s counsel. The Emperor’s eyesight and hearing weakened with advancing age, but he still ruled with a mighty fist. Thus, he didn’t notice—and no one in the Imperial Court dared to tell him—that the original Tea Master had died, and his offspring had taken his place. The young Tea Master was more properly called a Tea Mistress, but she had taken to wearing a shorn head and her father’s clothes, speaking in a low, familiar voice, and offering the same sagacity as the elder. The new Tea Master quickly made allies and gathered leverage against her enemies in the Imperial Court. It was said hushed voices that the Tea Master was the true power behind the throne.

The Tea Master had one weakness: her younger sister.

One morning in early spring, the Tea Master burst into her sister’s room, which was more library and laboratory than palatial bedchamber.

“Rosalind!”

The younger sister did not look up from her book. She was seated at a small table; a green liquid was bubbling in a glass flask at her elbow.

“Word is all over the Palace of the scandal you have caused! You should not have announced the Crown Prince’s secret liaison in front of the Emperor and the Empress Consort? Stupid girl!”

“Well, the Crown Prince should not have made his affair with the Imperial Gardener so bloody obvious! I merely made an observation!”

“Silly child! You have put us both at risk. The Crown Prince is calling for your execution. You must leave at once.”

“No,” said the younger, sticking out her chin.

The two sisters locked eyes.

“If you want to retain any semblance of this life,” the Tea Master made a gesture to indicate the piles of books and experiments in various stages around the room, “you will do exactly as I say. Or face the consequences yourself.”

When the Tea Master heard no rejoinder, she continued, “You will go to the eastern province and be my special emissary to oversee the plucking and preparation of this year’s Silver Needle harvest. You will return with the Emperor’s tribute and present it to him personally with an apology.”

The younger sister huffed and rolled her eyes. “You will. Or else,” threatened the Tea Master. The younger sister stood up and stomped over to a large trunk in the corner.

“No. You will only take what will fit in this satchel.” The Tea Master’s command was met with yowls of protest.

“What will I do in the back of beyond?! With nothing to do! And only simpletons for company!”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe you could apply your knowledge of chemistry, physics, geography, and climate to the Silver Needle harvest and actually _contribute_ to its refinement.”

“I’d rather be executed.”

“That is being arranged as we speak! You don’t want to be useful. Then, why don’t you be a storybook hero? Slay the monster, save the maiden, and live happily ever after.”

“When does the carriage arrive?”

“No carriage.” More howls erupted. “You are fleeing, my Dear, not going on parade. A woman travelling alone will garner too much attention and, unfortunately, would not be taken seriously by the eastern tea farmers.” The Tea Master tossed a bundle of clothes at her sister. “Here. You will be my _brother_. And go by your third name.”

“Sherlock? I have always preferred that.”

“Me, too,” admitted the Tea Master. “I will send a message to Old Man Lestrade. He heads one of the One Hundred Families of the East and will give you a place to stay and facilitate your access to the fields and processing areas.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“Old Man Lestrade is in his feeble dotage, but his name is greatly cherished amongst his kin and neighbours. I would trust his eldest daughter, who will receive the message, with my life, however. She will know of your true nature and circumstances. Ready yourself; you will leave shortly, during the mid-day meal when everyone will be otherwise occupied. I have shod a horse myself for you.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock opened her mouth and closed it. Twice. Finally, she asked, “Will you be okay?”

“Yes,” her sister assured her with a quick, strong embrace that surprised them both. “Now go! I shan’t bury another member of our family without a fight.”


	2. Lost and Found

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock is welcomed in the eastern province by Mother Lestrade. She falls in love.

Sherlock had made the two days’ journey from the Imperial City to the Eastern province without stopping. The landscape changed from flat plains to rolling hills to mountains. On the second day, the air turned cool, and she donned a dark cloak over her tunic.

The horse had been the only audience to her grumbling so Sherlock was secretly pleased when she finally arrived at the village gate and announced her arrival to the gatekeeper. In a few minutes, an auburn-haired woman met her with a wide smile.

“Welcome, Master Sherlock. I’m Mother Lestrade. How was your journey?”

“Tedious.”

Unaffected by her visitor’s bluntness, the woman said “Let’s walk. Your horse looks quite haggard.” Sherlock dismounted, and they made their way through the village, catching the stares of passing villagers. Lestrade nodded and smiled at the curious glances. Sherlock ignored them. The woman called herself Mother, but Sherlock noted she was only a few years older than herself.

“We are very pleased to have a member of the Imperial Court with us at this auspicious time.”

“I am not part of the Court. I’m here under duress, primarily because my... _brother_ is an insufferable prat.” Lestrade stopped and gave Sherlock a knowing glance. “And,” Sherlock added sheepishly, “Because I fancy my neck still attached to my head.”

“If you’d kept your tongue in your mouth, perhaps your head would not be in jeopardy.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened at the woman’s steely words, but there was a twinkle in her eyes, and her smile did not faltered. They continued walking.

“How is your brother?”

“Infuriating. Stubborn. Thinks he knows what’s best all the time for everybody.”

“Then he hasn’t changed,” sighed Mother Lestrade with a bittersweet smile.

They soon reached the door of a small house made of earthen bricks fortified with stone, bamboo and wood.

“Here we are,” said Mother Lestrade. “My brother will tend to your horse.” Sherlock handed the reins to a young man. He smiled and bowed. “Normally, Donovan is in school in the Imperial City, but he comes home to help with the harvest.”

“Call the constable! Call the constable! There’s been a robbery!” cried an old man as Sherlock and Mother Lestrade crossed the threshold.

“Papa! What’s the matter?”

“Someone had run off with my spectacles! Infernal thief!”

“They are on your head, Papa,” soothed Mother Lestrade, pulling the glasses down on the old man’s nose.

“What would I do without you?” said the old man, patting his daughter’s hand. “Who is this young man?”

“This is Master Sherlock, special emissary from the Imperial Court. He’s here to oversee the tea harvest and production.”

“We do not need imperial meddling. The One Hundred Families have been producing the finest tea in the land for generations.”

“He will also take our Imperial tribute to the Emperor,” added Mother Lestrade.

“Ha! I will tell you the same as I told that other so-called Tea _Master_ some years ago. Of course, you are welcome. And you are welcome to _leave_ as soon as possible.”

“Papa!”

“On that, Baron Lestrade, you and I are in agreement,” said Sherlock with a bow.

“Come, Sherlock, let’s get you settled in your room,” said Mother Lestrade hurriedly. “You must be tired. Would you like to eat? Rest? Tomorrow will be very busy, getting ready for the plucking to begin the following day.”

“My body requires little food and even less sleep. A quick wash, and I would like the see the environs.”

“Very well.”

 

Mother Lestrade guided Sherlock around the village. They turned a corner and a small hairy creature with a staff bumped into Sherlock. Sherlock quickly realized it was a young maiden. With a cane. There were alarmed grunts under the long curtain of blonde hair that hid her face. The girl dropped the cane, and Mother Lestrade picked it up. The girl took it with a trembling hand and hobbled away.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at her guide.

“What a lost creature! But at least she will be one of the tea pluckers. That is good,” said Mother Lestrade, shaking her head. “Let’s go out to the fields.”

Huge canopies were tented across the neat terraces of green bushes.

“The tea bushes have been shaded for the last three weeks in preparation for the harvest. I am in charge of the tea pluckers, young maidens from the One Hundred Families. Tomorrow is the purity ceremony. They are given their uniforms: white gloves and white gowns. They will pluck as much as possible in during daylight for two days. Then, the processing begins.”

“Purity ceremony?”

“It is the highest honour in our land for a girl to be tasked with plucking the Silver Needle. By Imperial edict, the young maidens must be virgins, and I’m to verify at the ceremony tomorrow.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened. “I can’t believe that my brother sanctioned that.”

“The edict is quite old, one favoured by the Emperor himself as well as the heads of the One Hundred Families. _Men_.”

“Ah, my father. Now, that I believe. And you _inspect_ the maidens?”

“That is what I report officially to the family heads and in our Imperial record. In actuality, I only look deep into their eyes. That tells me everything I need to know.”

Sherlock scoffed.

Lestrade smiled. “Each of the One Hundred Families owns a portion of these communal fields. In addition, they often have secret gardens where they cultivate their own. Well, you’ve seen quite a bit so far. I must return; I need to get back to Papa.”

“I would like to explore more,” said Sherlock.

“Of course. Supper will be at dusk—if you’re eating by then.” She gave Sherlock a wink and left her amidst the tea bushes.                                      

Sherlock took a deep breath and looked around her. “I _hate_ making the best of a situation. But there’s nothing for it.” So she took off exploring, studying the vegetation, animal life, water sources, and soil.

 

The afternoon sun had not yet waned when Sherlock sat down beneath a willow tree in a secluded corner. The long streams of leaves formed a curtain around her. At a short distance, she saw a high stone wall covered with dense ivy. The ivy was odd, off, somehow.

She mumbled, “If I was going to make a secret door to a secret garden, it would look just like this.” A brush of her hand revealed a small door at the foot of the wall. The door was locked, but in her short lifespan no lock had yet defeated Sherlock, so she soon opened it, lay on the ground, and squeezed her way through. She locked the little door behind her.

On the other side of the door was a walled expanse of sunny meadow. There was a bright blue pond flanked by wide, smooth pedestal stones on one side and the tallest tree that Sherlock had ever seen on the other.

“I bet I can see the entire province from the top,” said Sherlock, and she set to climbing the tree. She was halfway up when she heard the door rattle. Sherlock froze.

The crippled girl she had seen earlier appeared from the rabbit-sized hole. Impeded by her trembling hand, it took some time for her to pull her cane and a satchel through the door. She lumbered to the base of the tree.

The maiden pulled her hair back and secured it at the nape of her neck. Sherlock could only see the top of her head from her viewpoint. The girl hung a cloth painted with concentric circles on the tree and then moved clumsily to the middle of the meadow. Sherlock saw she had a pretty face with large eyes and pert nose. The maiden pulled a bow from the satchel and strung it with practiced ease. Then, she removed a bundle of arrows from her satchel.

Sherlock was struck by the transformation when the girl stood anew. As if she had forgotten about her impairments, the girl was ramrod straight like a soldier and, with steady hands, shot the arrow in the centre of the target. Again and again she hit the mark. But when the arrows were all spent, the girl was forced to stumble with her cane back to the tree to retrieve them.

The shifts in the girl’s physicality puzzled Sherlock as much as her archery skill impressed her. “How curious,” whispered Sherlock to herself, “I want to _talk_ to someone. To actually initiate a conversation.”

Sherlock was about to reveal herself when the girl re-packed the bow, arrow, and target. Sherlock was prepared to let the girl leave without disturbing her, but the girl didn’t leave. She moved to the largest flat rock at the far edge of the pond.

She unlaced her tunic and slipped it off. She bore an angry scar of burnt flesh on her left shoulder. She slipped a chain of heavy keys from her neck and dropped them on her satchel. She shimmied out of her skirt and underclothing and, with a look of supreme concentration, dove into the pond.

Sherlock couldn’t breathe. She did not have words to describe her predicament, and that thought alone terrified her, because Sherlock always had words for every occasion, too many words according to all who knew her. The sight of girl leaping into the water was more beautiful than any artistic rendering, any natural wonder, indeed, anything made or unmade that Sherlock had ever seen. The lovely vision had rendered Sherlock breathless and bereft of language.

Sherlock watched the maiden swim from one side of the pond to the other. When she emerged from the water, the maiden crawled onto the rock and lay on her back, fanning her hair about her head, basking in the last of the afternoon sun. The maiden dozed.

Like a shipwrecked sailor dying of thirst, Sherlock drank in the girl’s golden halo of tresses, her round breasts, her sloping belly, her curly-haired mons, and her strong legs. Sherlock longed to kiss and lick and touch every inch of this creature. To be the first and the last person on earth to wring sighs and moans and pleas from her. To hear her name on the lips that the pink tongue was now licking. To _know_ her and be known. To lose herself between the maiden’s legs. Desire struck Sherlock unaware and unprepared, like a fatal blow.

The girl sat up. Then, she crawled slowly from the rock to the base of the tree, dragging her belongings behind her. Sherlock looked straight down at her. The young maiden took a small glass jar from her satchel and painstakingly rubbed a translucent salve on her scar. Sherlock was torn between watching the girl’s ministrations—so much stronger was she in the right arm than in the left, Sherlock noted—and pondering the chemical composition and origin of the unguent. The maiden massaged her left hand and leg with equal care. Finally, she lay down and stretched. Sherlock smiled. Then, the girl dipped her hand again in the jar, but this time brought her greased fingers to her nipples.

Sherlock’s whispered “ _Oh_ ” was carried away on the breeze.

The girl rolled her head to the side. She closed eyes and smiled. Sherlock felt a stab of jealousy at the object of her reverie. The anger evaporated when the maiden teased her nipples into pebbles with slow circling motions. Her back arched off the ground. Sherlock opened her mouth to suckle the air between them. The maiden turned over and settled herself against a mossy root. Sherlock licked her lips at the bottom on display. The urge to sink her teeth in the ample flesh consumed her. Sherlock watched the girl grind her hips, and she began to move her own in counterpoint sympathy.

“Oh, oh, _oh!_ ” The young maiden found her release and curled onto her side. Bits of dirt and moss clung to her naked form. Sherlock ached to receive the sated smile that decorated the girl’s lips. To be responsible for it.

Sherlock _ached_ , and without thinking, brought her hand to her waist—her right hand— _the hand that was holding her to the tree_.

“Argh!”

The girl’s eyes opened and she rolled away just as Sherlock came toppling down from above.

Sherlock landed with a _thunk!_

Sherlock stood up carefully, hands raised, head bowed.

“Please, please, I mean you no harm. I swear on anything you find valuable. I am a stranger to these parts...” Sherlock lifted her head and saw the lethal point of an arrow directed at her.

The young maiden, still nude, had her bow pulled taut, ready to sink the flinty arrow tip into Sherlock’s heart. She was no cripple now—and no maiden. She was a fierce warrior-queen, full of fury, ready for battle. Sherlock had the fleeting thought that it was not an altogether unpleasant notion: to die at hands of the woman she loved. To have her heart pierced when she'd just discovered its existence.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. So very sorry.” Sherlock had never apologized so much in her life. “I didn’t see anything.” The maiden squinted at Sherlock. “Okay, okay, so maybe I saw a little bit, but I won’t say anything. I promise. I’m not from here.”

“Who?” The girl’s voice was a croak.

“I’m a special emissary from the Imperial City, sent to bring back the Emperor’s tea, the Silver Needle. I’m staying with Mother Lestrade.”

The girl nodded slowly but did not drop her bow.

“And you? What’s your name?”

The girl shrugged.

“You have to have a name. Everyone has a name. Please. I won’t harm you. I won’t tell anyone I was here.” She held up her hands higher and lowered her head again. She backed away from the girl, until she felt the tree trunk behind her. “Please.”

“Daughter. Wat’s.”

“Wat’s Daughter? But that’s your family name. What’s your own name?”

The girl shrugged. Then, her eyes widened. “Go. Scandal. Tea.” The maiden’s face strained at pushing the words and air out.

Then, Sherlock realized. She was a _man_. If she were caught with the naked young maiden in a secret garden, it would eliminate the girl’s opportunity to be a tea plucker. “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” she said to herself.

_Whack! Whack! Whack!_

Sherlock couldn’t move. She was pinned to tree by three arrows in her cloak.

“Not! Stupid!” the maiden roared.

“This is going from bad to worse. No, you’re not stupid. Not at all. You’re an accomplished archer and swimmer. Your parents are dead, killed tragically in a fire that left you injured. You obviously some kind of smith...blacksmith...because your brother enjoys his mulled wine and isn’t able to support you two.”

The maiden eyed her suspiciously.

“Wizard?” The word was mangled, but Sherlock understood.

“No, I just observe things. Your injuries come and go, which suggests they are at least partially psychosomatic, which means that the origin was traumatic. Mother Lestrade called you ‘lost’ which is a kind word for orphan—I know, I’ve been called it myself. The scar on shoulder is from fire; your difficulty speaking could be due from smoke inhalation. On your skirt, there is a mulled wine stain at the knee, but you don’t smell of spirits yourself. So it’s as if you’d been kneeling beside someone who dropped or spilled their cup. And it’s rare that a young woman be given—or steal—the keys to the household, unless the male head of household is completely incompetent. Or useless as through drink. Your right arm is much more muscular than the left, typical of a blacksmith, who holds with one hand and pounds with the other. Odd profession for a young woman, though. But if your only living relative isn’t able to be a wage-earner, then what are you to do? Your clothes were once of fine quality but now are old, suggesting you were once wealthy but your fortune drained, after the fire I suspect. The arrow tips are brand new and handcrafted—very well done, by the way—No, you aren’t stupid at all.”

The girl stared at her. Then, she barked, “Extra. Ordinary.”

“You think so?”

The girl nodded.

“That’s not what people normally say.”

The young maiden cocked her head in inquiry.

“They normally say, ‘You’re going to be executed in the morning.’ That’s why I was exiled here.”

The girl laughed and laughed. She dropped her bow and arrow.

Tears came to Sherlock’s eyes for a myriad of reasons she would sort and classify much later that evening.

The girl dressed and packed her belongings. “Stay,” she ordered as she pulled the arrows from Sherlock’s cloak. Sherlock nodded, close proximity to the young maiden taking her words again. Sherlock bent and offered her the cane, which she took. She limped back to the wall and then disappeared.

Sherlock returned as Mother Lestrade was placing steaming bowls of stew on the table. She mumbled appropriate pleasantries at the appropriate times, but she did not taste the food or recognize her own voice. When the Baron and Donovan vacated the table, Sherlock rose. Mother Lestrade caught Sherlock’s arm.

“Let’s have a cup of tea, and you can tell me your news.”

“Of the Court?”

Mother Lestrade shook her head. “Of whatever happened to you today.”

Sherlock shook her head and stumbled to her assigned room.

“Tired. Nothing happened. Too much sun.”

“Okay. Up at dawn tomorrow.”

Sherlock nodded and closed the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm making my way through about 15 cups' worth of Silver Needle tea writing this fic. It's a very light tea, which tastes like a mix of green tea and black tea. It is much more sophisticated than I am.


	3. Water and Soap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and the young maiden come to aide of Mother Lestrade.

Sherlock was drowning.

No, she was swimming.

She was floating, watching the bubbles rise from her lips to the surface of the bright blue pond. More bubbles joined hers. The young maiden swam up from the dark depths below.

They were fish. No. They were mer-creatures. No. Sherlock studied their forms. Their naked figures bore no scales, no fins, no tails. Limbs and hair tangled. The girl clung to Sherlock; Sherlock returned the passionate embrace. They swayed together like reeds along the bank, skin sliding on skin. They kissed and giggled, releasing an effervescent flurry above their heads.

_This must be what happiness feels like. Or something lighter, more buoyant._

_Joy._

Sherlock was joyful. Full of joy.

The pair twisted around each other, weightless and without burden.

Then, a cold current weaved between them. Weak at first, it grew in strength. It pulled the girl from Sherlock, hooking her around the waist, dragging her back toward the murky bottom. Sherlock scrambled to maintain her grip on the girl, to no avail; she herself was being pulled upwards, toward the light.

_No, no, no!_

With a tremendous splash, Sherlock broke through the surface, gasping for air.

“Master Sherlock!”

Sherlock opened her eyes. Mother Lestrade was flicking water in her face.

“Finally! You gave me quite a scare, you were sleeping so soundly.”

“Ugh,” said Sherlock, sitting up, scratching her arms. She rubbed her face with rough hands.

“I apologize for resorting to this.” Lestrade indicated the water in the pail. “But you didn’t respond to earlier calls. How did you sleep? Good dreams, I hope. You seems so...distracted yesterday evening.”

“Ugh. I don’t dream. And the quality of my sleep is irrelevant. Body’s just transport,” grumbled Sherlock, standing up. “Dreams are for frivolous creatures, like poets and...”

“Women?” teased Mother Lestrade.

“Yes!” said Sherlock, stomping about the room in her nightclothes. “ _Women!_ I am a _man_ of...Science...and...Logic...and Reason. I value _utility_ and empirical methods of... _What are you laughing at?!_ ”

“You remind of someone I once knew. Who are you trying to convince? Me or yourself? Here is your water. Wash and prepare yourself. Today is a busy day.”

Mother Lestrade left the pail on the floor, and Sherlock nodded. As Mother Lestrade turned to go, she stopped.

“What is that?”

She pointed to small green book on top of Sherlock’s satchel.

“ _That_ is a joke from my brother.”

“A joke?”

“Some years ago, the Emperor wrote a book of poetry about his infatuation with Silver Needle tea. It is an absurd work of absolutely no discernible value. My brother slipped a copy into my satchel prior to my departure. Perhaps he thought it would amuse me.” Sherlock took up the book and opened it. She read, “‘to my jasmine-scented beauty.’” She flipped through pages, “’White like the clouds,’ ‘green like a dream,’ ‘pure like snow,’ ‘aromatic like the delicate white vine that haunts my lips.’” Sherlock rolled her eyes.

“May I...borrow...it? We get so few books in these parts, and after all, I am just a frivolous _woman_.” Mother Lestrade chuckled easily, but she fingered the hem of her blouse nervously.

“You know how to read? I’m surprised—women in these parts do not even have your own names.”

“True. Papa and the other heads of households are quite _traditional_. But someone very untraditional taught me, once upon a time.”

“Take it. I’ll only require it if by some chance the entire village is completely out of emetics.”

"Thank you,” said Lestrade, hiding the book in the folds of her skirt. “Ready yourself well. Breakfast is on the table. And we have _company_.”

 

 

“Mother?” said Baron Lestrade as Mother Lestrade was clearing the tables. “By some chance was the purity ceremony moved to our breakfast table without my knowledge? I think we had every young maiden of the village in attendance.”

“And a lot of their mothers. I guess that’s what comes from have a striking young man from the Imperial City as our house guest.” Mother Lestrade threw a glance at Sherlock who was sitting on a step, facing the interior courtyard, smoking a pipe. “Adler’s Daughter seemed especially keen. What did you make of her, Master Sherlock?”

“Not without mental faculties,” conceded Sherlock. “Unlike Ander’s Daughter.”

“Ander’s Daughter was the only one not here to see you—she’s quite keen on our Donovan.”

“Poor lad.”

“Well, I just hope there’s enough porridge for tomorrow!” cried Baron Lestrade. “An old man like me needs his breakfast.”

“You come first, Papa, always,” said Mother Lestrade, kissing the top of her father’s head. He squeezed her hand. “The rest will just have to queue. Come on, Master Sherlock, you can help me get the gowns and gloves for the purity ceremony from the back garden.”

As they walked together, Mother Lestrade said under her breath, “Let me assure you that neither by my standards, nor by the Emperor’s, is Adler’s Daughter _pure_. She has tied many of the young men of village in cruel knots before cutting them loose to flounder. Many. Like poor Master Harold, Wat’s Son.”

“But she will be a tea plucker?”

Mother Lestrade shrugged. “Her family’s influence in the village grows. I have to consider what’s the greater scandal.”

“You sound like my brother.”

Mother Lestrade blushed. Then, she turned pale.

“Oh, no!”

 

 

Rows and rows of white gowns and gloves were splatter with large, plum-coloured spots.

“What am I going to do? Washing these stains out would take an army of laundry women all day, and the ceremony is this evening! I can’t sew new ones. We can still have the ceremony, of course, but without the uniforms, it loses a lot of its splendour. Who would do such a thing?”

“You did have many young maidens over for breakfast,” said Sherlock. “It could have been someone who thought her purity might be _in question_.”

“Very possibly. Or someone who wants to discredit our family and our central role in the tea preparation. There are many up-and-coming families, like the Moriartys and the Adlers, who are eager to assert their control and think that the old guard, like Papa and Baron Stamford, are part of the past. Someone could have snuck out of the breakfast and come back here and ruined the clothes; there was so much confusion and coming and going this morning. But what am I going to _do_ about it?!” Mother Lestrade sat down on a stone and put the stained gloves beside her.

_Knock, knock, knock!_

Sherlock turned and saw the young maiden of her dream at the back gate.

“Oh, Wat’s Daughter. I completely forgot.”

Sherlock straightened her jacket and patted her hair as she accompanied her hostess to the gate. At the last minute, Sherlock threw her pipe in a bush.

“I asked her brother, Master Harold, to make me some new hanging lanterns for the ceremony.”

“Thank you, my Dear.”

Two blue eyes were just visible between the curtains of blonde hair. She pulled a wagon cart, and metal clanged.

Sherlock said, “Allow me, please.” The girl eyed him warily but loped out of the way, leaning on the gate. Sherlock pulled the wagon into the garden.

“Master Sherlock, this is Wat’s Daughter, of one of the founding families of the village and sister of the village blacksmith. She will be a tea plucker tomorrow. Daughter, this is Master Sherlock Holmes, emissary from the Imperial Tea Master, here for the Silver Needle harvest and preparation.”

The girl returned Sherlock’s bow with a graceless curtsey. Sherlock broke the awkward silence by unloading the metal boxes, chains, and stakes.

“They’re lovely,” said Mother Lestrade, indicating the lanterns. “But I don’t even know if there’s going to be a purity ceremony. Just leave them, thank you.” Mother Lestrade voice faded as she walked toward the lines of purple-spotted clothing the clothes, shaking her head.

Sherlock’s erect posture and attempt at a smile went unrewarded; the girl was frowning at the lines of garments. She scooped up the gloves that Mother Lestrade had left on the stone and hobbled away without a word of leave-taking.

“Well, that went splendid. Well done, Sherlock. Where is she going?” muttered Sherlock following the girl out the gate. She looked back before reaching the corner and spotted Sherlock. She quickened her pace, dragging the wagon behind her.

“Following a crippled girl pulling a noisy wagon is no match for someone who has honed her surveillance skills slinking around the Imperial Palace.”

Soon, Sherlock approached a back gate. She saw the girl’s wagon parked at the open door of a small shed. Excess metal, broken tools and piles of wood surrounded the shed. The banging of metal could be heard from the front of the compound. Sherlock crept to the door and leaned in.

“Hello?”

Sherlock gasped. The interior walls held shelves with hundreds of glass jars full of herbs, plants, seeds, and flowers. There were powders, liquids, lotions, and salves of various colours. There was a small mortar and pestle set on the table and a larger one on the floor in the corner. Paper envelopes were stacked beside a small scale. Neatly lined on the table were glass vials and flasks and earthen jugs of every shape and size. More were stacked under the table. It was a tight space, with every item reachable from the very tall stool that was in the centre. A source of heat was in the farthest corner.

“It’s a laboratory,” whispered Sherlock, moving further inside the compartment. Then, she felt a sharp prick at her neck. She bent her head and raised her hands.

“We have to stop meeting like this,” said Sherlock, turning slightly to see the girl glaring at her. “If you wanted to shoot me, you would have already shot me.” The girl shrugged and lowered her bow.

“This...this...is amazing,” said Sherlock. The girl held a finger to her lips.

“I won’t tell anyone. This is more elaborate than some apothecaries in the Imperial City. Do you know about all of these?” The girl nodded slowly; she pointed to a faded drawing tacked to a high shelf. It was of an older man, smiling.

“’John Wat.’ Your father? He taught you?” The girl nodded. She pushed Sherlock out of the way, grunting.

“Okay, okay.” Sherlock moved to the far corner. The girl lit a candle and closed the door. Then, very quickly she went about mixing a powder and a liquid. Then, she brought out a small topped flask. She opened it and held it under Sherlock’s nose. “Some kind of alkali...? Ugh!” Sherlock sniffed.

The girl added several drops to the mixture and then put it all in a bowl of water and stirred. Then, she pulled the stained gloves from her pocket and dropped them in the bowl. Sherlock watched the purple stain evaporate. The girl pulled the pristine glove out, wrung the excess water, and it to Sherlock.

The girl smiled. Sherlock wanted to drown in that smile. To swim in it. To cling to it, as for breath.

“More,” croaked the girl. Sherlock shook her head sharply as if to forcibly throw off her sentimental thoughts. “Yes,” agreed Sherlock. “Mother Lestrade will need...four or five jugs of this.” The girl nodded. Sherlock asked nervously, “Do you need...an assistant?” John pulled a small folded stool from under the table.

“Sit,” she ordered with a grin. Sherlock sat. They went to work.

 

Sherlock put the cork in the top of the last jug.

“In the Imperial City, you could study. You could be a doctor. All this knowledge of herbs.”

The girl shrugged.

“You know how to read?”

The girl pointed to the old man’s picture and nodded.

“Do people come to you for help? In the village?”

The girl shook her head.

“Why not? Seems like a waste.”

The girl shrugged. Then she opened her mouth wide. “Ahhh,” she breathed. Then, she made gesture indicating her left hand and leg.

“Of course, it's your own laboratory. You’re looking for a cure.”

The girl nodded strongly.

“Any progress?”

The girl gave a helpless shrug. Then, she pointed to the jugs.

“I’ll take them to her. She’ll be very grateful.”

“Mother. Good.”

“Sister! Where are you?!” a voice called angrily. The girl’s face panicked. She hurried to the far end of the shed and opened a small door. Sherlock took the jugs up clumsily in her arms. The door opened on a metal  and earth fortified tunnel, which deposited Sherlock at the far end of a tiny side street.

 

 

“Oh, Master Sherlock! You have saved the day,” said Mother Lestrade. “I am too indebted and pressed for time to ask where this came from or what it is. It’s working that’s all that matters.” The white garments were floating in tubs of water. “But tonight, after the purity ceremony and the council of elders—which you have been invited to attend—we will have a very long cup of tea. And talk. No excuses.”

“Very well,” said Sherlock. “You could take the gowns and gloves to the covered pavilions, where the tea will be dried on the second and third days, and dry them on the bamboo mats. They will dry faster there.”

“You’re right. I will call Stamford’s Daughters and Old Mother Hudson to help me. Now go and explore. Smoke your pipe. There’s much cooking and cleaning yet to do, and if you’re seen around too much ‘women’s work’, people might talk.”

“They do little else,” said Sherlock dryly, but she rose and retrieved her pipe from the bush.

 

 

 


	4. Talk and Silence

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock attends the council of elders and drinks tea with Mother Lestrade. She and the young maiden come to a mutually beneficial agreement.

“So, let’s discuss the division of duties for the next several days,” said a round, pleasant-faced man, looking down at a ledger. “The Lestrade family will oversee the plucking. The Moriartys and Morans will oversee the interior and exterior drying process. Now, the fire-drying...”

“Baron Stamford, I will see to the firing,” said a young man. Snickers burst from a group of young men in the corner. A dark-haired youth stood up. “You can barely see your way out of your own cup!” he taunted. Laughter erupted.

“Now, now...” said Baron Stamford. “Master James, please, sit down. Master Harold...”

“I am the only blacksmith in this council. And no one knows _fire_ better than I do!” The blonde-haired young man turned his head, glaring defiantly at all those present. “As the head of one of the oldest families here, _I_ should be in charge of the baking.”

Baron Lestrade’s voice rose above the murmur of voices, “Silence! If Baron Wat wants to be in charge of baking, so shall it be. If it were not for our hard work so many years ago, the Silver Needle as we know it would not even exist!”

There was grumbling from the corner and a loud laugh.

Baron Stamford smiled sadly at Baron Lestrade. “Please, please.” He made a gesture of silence. “The council fully recognizes the important role that the Lestrade and Wat families have played and continue to play in the Silver Needle harvest, but...as far as _Master Harold’s_ role...Master Harold, would you agree to joint leadership of the task?”

Master Harold sat down in his chair and shrugged. Finally, he nodded.

“Alright, Baron Adler? Your family is traditionally in charge of the packing and preparation of the Emperor’s tribute. Could you also aide Master Harold in the baking?”

“It would be my honour, Baron Stamford.” The older man stood and smoothed his oily moustache. He bowed.

“Very well, the leaders will enlist the assistance of the remaining members of the One Hundred Families in the execution of their tasks.”

Sherlock stood.

“Baron Stamford, if I may?”

“Please. We welcome the input from the Imperial advisor.” There were more snickers from the corner; the Baron shot the youth a stern look.

“This morning, there was an _irregularity_ with the gowns and gloves for the pluckers. I don’t know if it is a harbinger of things to come, but it may prove prudent to have some kind of security measures in place, perhaps a schedule of guards to keep watch over the harvest and forestall any problems.”

“Ohhh...Did Harry spill his cup on _all_ the nice white dresses?! Or just Adler’s Daughter’s?”

“Shut up, you bastard!”

“Silence!” yelled Baron Stamford. Then, he nodded slowly. “We have never had trouble before, but Master Sherlock raises an interesting point. My sons and I will oversee security—especially in the evenings—ourselves. And any issues should be reported to me immediately. Alright. Any more concerns? No? The council is adjourned. Sleep soundly, gentlemen, we have much work ahead of ourselves. And we should be well-rested to hearten our young ladies in the morning.”

 

 

“So that’s what happened,” said Sherlock. She and Mother Lestrade were sitting between a single candle in the inner courtyard, sipping cups of tea. The house was dark and quiet.

“My father,” said Mother Lestrade, shaking her head. “Do you really think there will be more trouble with the tea?”

“I don’t know,” said Sherlock, “But you’re right that there is a significant amount of grumbling among the families. Someone may use it as a vehicle to gain local control or discredit the de facto village leadership. Or even as a symbol of protest against Imperial rule. How did the ceremony go?”

“It was lovely.” Mother Lestrade leaned back in her chair and smiled. “Though girls these days have a lot on their hearts.”

“’Girls these days’? You are hardly a crone, _Mother_.”

“Today,” said Mother Lestrade, slipping off her shoes and curling her legs under her, “I feel like one.”

“And were they _pure_?”

“More or less. And, to be honest, more ‘more’ than less.”

Sherlock rolled her eyes.

“You don’t think I can tell?”

“In a word, no.”

“Let me try it on you, _Master_ Sherlock.”

“Very well.” Sherlock huffed. She leaned forward. Mother Lestrade leaned forward. They stared into each other’s eyes.

“Your heart...,” began Mother Lestrade.

“Ha! Wrong!” interrupted Sherlock, “I’ve been reliably informed that I haven’t one!”

“Nonsense. Did your brother tell you that? He’s made denying his heart an art form, but I can see right into yours. Someone is in your heart. Someone who wasn’t there yesterday when you arrived in our humble village.”

Sherlock scoffed and leaned back in her chair. They sat in silence, sipping their tea.

“Perhaps I should tell you about the Wat family?”

Sherlock winced. Her intake of breath had been audible.

“Ha, HA! I knew it! You didn’t bow to any of those girls at breakfast, but our little lost creature comes to the back gate, and you are positively _genteel_. Your brother loses his manners when he’s flustered. You, you seem to gain yours.”

“I admit to nothing,” said Sherlock, staring into her cup. “But knowing a little bit of...village history would not go amiss. I can’t deduce _everything_.”

“Well, let’s see...Wat family. Mother died in childbirth...”

“Always something,” mumbled Sherlock.

“Doting father, John Wat. Two children, Master Harold and Daughter. Baron Wat was Papa’s best friend and business partner. He was responsible for developing the cultivars of the tea plant that you see in the fields today. Some years ago, there was a horrible fire. Daughter managed to pull Master Harold to safety unscathed and went back for her father. She survived with injuries to her left side and a damaged voice, but her father perished. The homestead was reduced to ashes. Some say Master Harold was responsible for the fire. It was around the time he was seen frequently in the company of Adler’s Daughter, and she snubbed him coldly afterwards. Master Harold often drowns his grief—and perhaps guilt—in spirits. Daughter is devoted to him, however. They have both become quite reclusive since the accident, rebuilding and taking odd blacksmithing jobs to make ends meet.”

Sherlock drained her cup. “Fascinating.” She rolled her eyes. “All she’s missing is a fairy godmother.”

“Or a Prince Charming?” Mother Lestrade grinned. Sherlock felt her skin flush; she leant forward and extinguished the candle before her body could betray her further.

“Well, I’m off to bed,” said Mother Lestrade. “Good night, Master Sherlock.”

“Good night.”

 

 

Sherlock stared into the darkness for a long time. Then, she retrieved one of the three large books that she had wedged in her satchel prior to her flight from the Palace. She tore the first page and slipped it into her pocket. Then, she silently made her way to the side street and the dark tunnel that led to the young maiden’s shed. Light filtered from beneath the door. She knocked softly.

The sliver of a scowling face greeted her.

“Forgive the very late hour and the intrusion on your time and, of course, your residence. I wish to place before you a proposition, for your due consideration.” Sherlock bowed and stepped back from the door when it opened wider.

“In exchange for use of your fine laboratory, I will trade you use of _this_.” Sherlock handed her the book. The girl scanned the cover. “It’s a medical encyclopaedia, the latest thinking on human anatomy and physiology from scholars at the Imperial University and around the world.” The girl nodded, flipping the pages. She motioned for Sherlock to enter and shut the door behind her. Sherlock’s stomach fluttered. She swallowed loudly and cleared her throat.

“And in exchange for you sharing your knowledge with me about these,” Sherlock made a sweeping gesture to indicate the jars and vials, “I will aide you in your search for a cure for your... _afflictions_.” Sherlock’s attempt to soften the last word failed.

The girl scowled again. “Why?”

“Because this afternoon, I was horridly, dreadfully _bored_ , and...you’re a puzzle. I like puzzles.”

The girl smiled. Then, she nodded. “Trade?” she asked

Sherlock smiled.

“Trade.”

Through simple words and gestures, the girl managed to describe the properties and uses of many of the medicinal plants stored on the shelves. She opened her mouth wide for Sherlock’s visual examination by candlelight, but when Sherlock made to touch her tremor-struck hand, she shrunk away and turned her back to Sherlock.

“No.”

Sherlock bit her lip. Hard.

“I am sorry. I mean you _absolutely_ no harm. Please. Umm.” Sherlock turned to the door; then, she turned back. “Fuck! Why does no woman in the idiotic village have a name? I refuse to call you Daughter! What is your name? What do you call yourself?” The girl looked over her shoulder and pointed to the drawing. “Wat? No. John?” The girl nodded. “You call yourself John.” Sherlock laughed. The girl frowned and pointed to the door. “Alright, alright.” Sherlock held up her hands in mock surrender. “I’ll call you John. May I experiment, John?” She pointed to the table. John stared at her and clutched the book tighter in her arms. She nodded. Sherlock moved the stool to the corner of the table farthest from her.

In the end, Sherlock perched on the stool and John curled on the floor at its base. Occasionally, Sherlock would interrupt John’s reading with a question, but they spent the better part of the next several hours in silence.

Sherlock tapped her fingers to her lips. “John...?” She looked down. The girl was asleep.

_She is beauty._

Sherlock wanted to lift the heavy tome from her chest. She wanted to drape her cloak around the girl and gather her in her arms. She wanted to deposit her in the centre of a soft, warm bed. She wanted to spoon behind her. She wanted to nuzzle at the girl’s neck and synchronize the rise and fall of their breathing.

She wanted this girl, this unlikely creature, to be _home_.

Sherlock ruffled her own hair and sighed. She blew out the candle.

“Good night, John,” she said as she closed the door behind her.

 

 

“You haven’t slept,” said Mother Lestrade.

“Transport. Do you have a quick and trusted messenger to deliver a letter to the Imperial City?”

Mother Lestrade nodded. “What...?”

“If you must know, I am seeking the Tea Master’s counsel. On a medical matter.”

Mother Lestrade’s eyes widened. Sherlock pressed an open envelope and several gold sovereigns in her hand and took the water pail. “Add your own greetings and salutations, if you’re so inclined.”

Mother Lestrade turned the envelope over in her hands. Then, she shook her head. “Too busy. But trust it will arrive safely and securely. Ready yourself well, Master Sherlock. Today is the first day of harvest, and the pluckers will arrive at the fields with much pomp and circumstance and the whole village in tow.”

“Hurrah!” said Sherlock, shutting the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I was a child, my mother kept a beat-up cardboard box of Harlequin romance novels under her bed. It was the greatest taboo of my young life to read them while she was out. These were not bodice-rippers; they would not even warrant an E rating on this site. They were full of Dukes and Marquises and peasant girls and Honour with a capital H. This story is a little tribute to that box, and of course, to the hopeless romantic who kept it. It is also an attempt to mock and fix the elements of those stories that, as an adult, make me shudder. The box and its owner are long gone, but their mark endures. 
> 
> Hope you enjoy.


	5. Open and Closed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tea plucking commences.

And so it was.

Two straight lines of maidens in white gowns and white gloves, wide bamboo hats and deep bamboo baskets in hand, paraded from the centre of town to the fields. They passed by the houses and shops to loud cheers and flower petals thrown in the air. Many villagers, skipping and whooping, fell in line behind the ensemble of promenading musicians that accompanied the group. Young children were towed in wagons, and babies were strapped to backs and hoisted on hips. At the front of the procession was Mother Lestrade, waving and cheering, with an occasional turn to pass a watchful eye over her charges. At the end of the line of girls was John, being pushed in a rolling chair by her brother. Master Harold spun the chair around and raced forward to the delighted squeals of his sister. Baron Lestrade bore the arm of Sherlock on one side and Master Donovan on the other. They strolled among the village elders along the flanks of the throng.

 

When they reached the fields, Master Donovan helped his father to stand on a small platform. The crowd hushed.

The old man cleared his throat.

 

> “The ten rules of the Silver Needle harvest:
> 
> One, the buds shall not be plucked in the rain.
> 
> Two, they shall not be plucked in frost.
> 
> Three, no damaged buds shall be plucked.
> 
> Four, no thin buds.
> 
> Five, no curved buds.
> 
> Six, no hollow buds.
> 
> Seven, no opened buds.
> 
> Eight, no purple buds.
> 
> Nine, no buds that exceed or fall short of the appropriate size.
> 
> And finally, the buds shall be plucked on the twenty-second and twenty-third day following the arrival of Spring.
> 
> And so, in accordance with these rules, most estimable and venerated young ladies, you may COMMENCE!”

A loud cry went up from the gathering, trumpets blared, and the young ladies filed into the fields.

Sometime later, Sherlock and Mother Lestrade were walking by the fields. The young maidens formed white and tan dots, moving steadily among the green stripes of bushes. Sherlock noted that John lagged behind the others, clumsily wielding her basket, while stopping occasionally to lean on her cane, which was staked in ground.

“The unopened bud. That’s what makes the Silver Needle so unique among teas. And so prized. And, because of our exacting standards, the plucking is quite a slow, painstaking business. Each family is required to contribute one-quarter kilo of dry tea to the communal supply. The average girl plucks about 2000 buds a day, which will generate...”

“One-fifth kilo,” said Sherlock. “And when they’ve met their quota?”

“They are free to pick for their families either in the unplucked portions of the communal lands or in the family’s private fields. Most of the girls will finish by lunchtime tomorrow. And if there’s more than one eligible daughter in a family, well, the process is accelerated even more. Donovan and some of the young men keep the tallies.”

“And you?”

“My hard work starts tomorrow, when the girls are done. Papa will examine the baskets as they are filled. Among many things, he wobbles, but as far as the tea quality, there is no one to match him. He can tell the grade just by running his hand through it.”

“Master Sherlock!” A voice called from the field. “Don’t you want to see the plucking first hand? Come carry my basket!”

Mother Lestrade raised her eyebrows. Sherlock asked, “Is it allowed?”

Mother Lestrade nodded. Sherlock made her way to Adler’s Daughter. They exchanged greetings. Sherlock took the proffered basket.

“The unopened bud,” said the girl as she dropped her plucking in the basket. “So _provincial_ , don’t you think?” Sharp eyes twinkled from beneath the brim of her large hat.

“Perhaps. But it’s what gives the Silver Needle its delicate flavour.”

“So you like the taste?”

Sherlock nodded.

“One would think that a cosmopolitan gentleman, such as yourself, would value a more robust, worldly brew. Were it on offer.” She bent low to brush soil from her sandaled feet. The neckline of the gown gaped and two pendulous breasts were on display. She looked up at Sherlock with a coy smile belied by cool, calculating eyes.

“Daughter!”

The girl straightened and jerked the basket from Sherlock’s hand. She plucked in silence, and then gave Sherlock a penetrating glance. She said nonchalantly as she resumed her plucking, “Yesterday at breakfast, I noted your face like the Silver Needle, ready-for-brewing, pale, but with soft down along the jaw. So feminine, I thought. I must have been mistaken for it is gone today.”

“This village is so consumed with the Silver Needle harvest; one must find parallels wherever one looks,” replied Sherlock coolly. “Well, I shan’t distract you further.”

The girl huffed, “With two sisters in the field, my effort need hardly be arduous. Not like that goblin,” she pointed to John struggling with her basket and cane, “who could pluck all day and not fill a teaspoon.”

Sherlock watched Stamford’s Daughter and Ander’s Daughter approach John; John waved her hands angrily and both girls retreated, shrugging. Sherlock needed to escape before her bubbling emotions revealed themselves across her face, or worse, in action.

“Nevertheless, I’ll take my leave. Good day, Daughter.” Sherlock gave her a dramatic smile and bow and strode from the fields.

 

Sherlock needn’t have devised six covert methods of entering John’s laboratory. When she reached the door from the tunnel, the tiniest slip of blue ribbon peeked out from the bottom of the door. She pulled the ribbon, and the latch clicked open. She spent the rest of the day atop the high stool, consumed by her own thoughts and experimentation.

Eventually, she paused. “I need a candle,” she muttered, rubbing her eyes. She listened carefully. She heard no movement from the living quarters: John had not returned. Nor had her brother. It was dark. Sherlock restored the laboratory to its original order and slipped out the door. She made her way back to the fields. Sherlock squinted at the one tiny white dot visible in the far distance.

“Master Sherlock!”

“Stamford’s Son,” said Sherlock, startled by the voice behind her.

“Please, call me Michael.” The young man chuckled. “We’ve no need to stand on ceremony. Rest assured that my father has taken your counsel to heart. Here I am. The first watchman. Do you smoke?” He offered her his tobacco pouch.

“I do.”

“Then, let us smoke and stroll and keep guard for it is the loveliest of nights. And I fancy the company.” Sherlock nodded and produced her pipe from the pocket of her cloak.

They walked and Master Michael regaled Sherlock with stories of village history. When they reached the centre of the field, Sherlock saw that John was still moving amongst the bushes.

“She is still at work?” Sherlock’s felt a quickening of her pulse.

Master Michael sighed. “The good-hearted girls of the village have offered to help her, but she is so stubborn. Insisting she work alone. It may take her two straight days just to meet the family quota.”

“And no one else can help?” Master Michael shot him an inquisitive look. “Her brother, perhaps?” clarified Sherlock.

“Men? Plucking tea?” Master Michael shook his head. “Plus, I know for a fact that Master Harold is deep into his fourth cup of mulled wine. Your conversation with Adler’s Daughter did not go unnoticed. By anyone.” Sherlock blushed. “It is a small village, Master Sherlock, but one with tall tales. Shall I recount one? Of the origin of the Silver Needle?”

“Please do,” said Sherlock, eager to change the subject. They smoked and walked and watched the girl lope along in the darkness.

“A long time ago, legend has it that the people of the village suffered a horrible drought. It was believed that a certain celestial plant that grew along the High Mountain...” Master Michael pointed to the horizon with tip of his pipe. “...could cure many illnesses and bring up water when its juice was dropped into dry riverbeds and troughs. Many villagers set off on the journey to collect the plant. A fearsome black dragon that guarded the mountain—and the plant—transformed them into rocks. A young maiden, whose brother also had attempted the quest and failed, decided to risk her life. When she reached the mountain, the black dragon attacked her viciously but she cunningly managed to kill it. The young lady then plucked the celestial plant and dropped its juice onto the people who has been turned into rocks, and all they were transformed back into humans. Then, she returned to the village and restored the water, ending the drought. Thanks to her courage and effort, the villagers were very grateful and cultivated the plant widely. For its colour and shape, they named it Silver Needle.”

“Sounds like a story for children. Or the old. And I am neither.”

“Ha, ha, ha! We are just men, enjoying our pipes!” Master Michael thumped Sherlock’s back good-naturedly. The sight of John struggling produced an uncomfortable ache in Sherlock and, once again, she had the urge to flee.

“Good night, Master Michael. That you may pass your watch without incident.” Sherlock bowed.

“And a good night to you, Master Sherlock.” He returned the bow.

 

_The unopened bud._

Sherlock was once again surrounded by tea bushes. John was before her, illuminated by a pregnant moon.

_The unopened bud._

John plucked one bud and held it up for Sherlock’s inspection. Sherlock nodded. Then, John drew the bud across her plump lower lip. She piled her long hair on top of her head and turned, drawing the stem down the column of her neck.

Sherlock ached. To run her tongue and teeth along the bud’s trail. To lick that neck and press her teeth tightly at the juncture of neck and shoulder. To unlace the gown as John’s steady fingers were doing.

The gown fell. John’s skin shone silver in the moonlight. She turned at the waist, showing her scarred flesh to Sherlock. Sherlock gasped.

 _The unopened bud_.

Sherlock groaned as John traced the whorls and ridges of her shoulder with the bud. Sherlock was frozen in place, unable to approach and partake in the fantasy. For fantasy, she knew it to be.

_The unopened bud._

John offered the sprig to Sherlock. The spell broke, and Sherlock closed the distance between them, her feet heavy as though moving through mud. John cupped her breasts, lifting them to just within Sherlock’s reach. Sherlock teased one nipple with the stem, circling it, tickling it, flicking it. Sherlock licked her lips as it darkened and pebbled. To taste that bud.

_The unopened bud._

John turned her back to Sherlock, and Sherlock followed her through the rows of bushes. Two gold beacons blinked in the distance. Like Orpheus and Eurydice, they strode toward the lights, one behind the other, John never looking back. As they approached, Sherlock realized that they were not lights.

They were eyes. Dragon eyes.

The dragon unfurled its wings, blotting out the moon, the only source of light its terrible orbs. It opened its mouth, and putrid fluid dribbled from its craggy teeth. Sherlock ran toward John, calling her name, but froze in horror as John disappeared into the dragon’s mouth without protest or cry.

_She can’t even scream. The unopened bud._

Sherlock woke with a start. She sat up quickly and noted the water pail in the middle of the room. Then, she fell back among the sweat-soaked bedding with a groan.

 

 


	6. Same and Different

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day two of the tea plucking: everything is the same; then everything is very different.

The second day of the plucking went much the same as the first, lacking only the initial fanfare. Sherlock spent the morning learning about the process from Mother Lestrade and the other villagers. She had marginal success in fending off the advances of the young maidens in the field and their matchmaking mothers in town. The sight of John in the fields again filled her with frustration, and the afternoon again found her in quiet of the laboratory.

Then, it was dark.

“Maybe if I took the syrup and cooled it and cut it into cubes...Is she _still_ out there? Damn it.” Sherlock threw down her pen and rubbed her brow. She extinguished the heat source, donned her cloak, and left her latest trial mid-step.

This time, Sherlock saw the guard first.

“Master Michael? You again?”

“I do not play cards or any other game of chance. I am the unluckiest man alive. Ha, ha, ha! I drew straws with my brothers and lost! They are warming themselves in the pub, and here I am, keeping watch over our precious Silver Needle....” He waved his arms to indicate the rows and rows of bamboo mats left in the open air to dry. “And our lost little sheep out there.” He pointed to John, who was a lone white spot in the darkness.

“I am suffering from insomnia and thought a turn about the cool night air might aide me. What say you to allowing me to take your watch?” Sherlock pressed two gold sovereigns in his hand. “And enjoy a fraternal pint or three, courtesy of the Emperor?”

“I say an emphatic, ‘Yes’!” Master Michael laughed and thumped Sherlock's back. “And I will take my leave before you change your mind. Thank you, Master Sherlock.” He bowed and left, the coins jangling in his hand.

When he had disappeared, Sherlock marched out to John.

“This is ridiculous! Stop! Or let someone help you. Let me help you.” Sherlock touched the basket.

“Go!” John jerked away from her, leaning heavily on her cane. “My. Work.” John’s white gown was stained with sweat and soil. Her gloves were torn. “Family.” John shook her head sharply at the garbled word. “Home.” The simple word rang clearer.

Then, John fell.

Sherlock reached for her, but the hostility and disgust in John’s face made her recoil. John pushed herself to standing with her cane.

“I have never in my life known anyone as mule-headed as...” Sherlock’s rant was met with a noise of protest from John.

Then, they both froze; two noses had detected one scent.

“Smoke!” cried Sherlock. She turned to see a dark figure near the drying tea. “Come on!”

Sherlock and John raced through the fields toward the figure. The figure dropped something and fled toward the horizon. Sherlock stomped on the burning stick and kicked it away from the tea. John ran ahead, chasing the figure. Sherlock followed, sprinting up and down the rolling terrain. Finally, the figure disappeared into the dark forest.

Sherlock and John stopped at the edge of the woods. Both were panting. Then, they looked at each other and laughed.

“John, your cane?”

John looked down in surprise. She howled with glee. Then, she marched a few steps with high kicks. She jumped. She held out both hands and pushed against the fence. She spun around in a circle and hopped.

Sherlock wallowed in the victory: _This. This is happiness._

She said, “Danger. That was the prescribed therapy.” John grinned and nodded. “The voice will come. The deficiencies with the extremities were largely psychosomatic, due to the traumatic nature of their origin, but the voice damage has a more physical derivation. Nevertheless, it will come back. I promise."

“Thank. You,” John said. Her voice was still rough and thick, but the fatigue and frustration of the past two days had vanished. She giggled and looked up at Sherlock, eyes aglow.

_Oh, my bright-shining girl..._

Sherlock bent to kiss her. But did not.

Sherlock’s mind registered the flicker of emotions across John’s face: surprise, fear, aversion, and then—a wave of nausea overtook her—resignation. John closed her eyes and braced her fisted hands by her sides.

_She will allow me to kiss her out of—gratitude?—though she does not desire it. Such is the privilege of men in this corner of the empire. It is the one freedom of men that I shall never care to exercise._

“John?”

John opened her eyes.

“You misunderstand me.”

John frowned.

“I am not the type of man who would take advantage of a young maiden under any circumstances...” As Sherlock took off her cloak, she removed the ripped page of the medical text from her pocket and handed it to John. Then, she fell to her knees. She pulled off her tunic and unwrapped the binding that fixed her breasts tight. Then, she pulled her breeches down and left her unmistakably feminine body exposed.

“...for you see, I am not a man at all. That is my true name. And this is my true nature. I am a maiden, much like yourself.”

Sherlock bowed her head and bit her lip. They remained locked in this odd tableau for some time. Finally, Sherlock dared a glance at John.

John shook her head slowly. She read the paper and studied Sherlock’s form. “Why?” she asked.

“I fell out of favour with the Crown Prince and was slated to be executed. My brother, who is in fact the Imperial Tea Master, bade me flee. If I return with the Imperial tribute and apologize, I may be spared. It was easier to travel as a man and the heads of the One Hundred Families wouldn’t accept me otherwise.”

John nodded. Then, she shrugged. Sherlock watched a thought enter her head.

“Pure?”

Sherlock’s eyebrows rose. She stuck out her chin. “Am I _pure_? Does that _matter_?” she barked.

John curled her lips in a small smile and repeated the question.

“Pure?”

“ _Yes!_ ” snapped Sherlock. “Want to check?”

“Yes,” said John. She screwed up her face in very good imitation of Mother Lestrade and looked into Sherlock’s eyes.

Sherlock was lost. The night had been a toggle between highs and lows, between anger and sadness and joy. She longed for the less volatile world of Science and Books.

John nodded, seemingly satisfied. Sherlock stared as John stepped out her gown and skirt and undergarments.

“Trade,” said John, giggling. She pointed to Sherlock’s clothes.

The tension of the scene evaporated, and Sherlock chuckled. She ripped off her clothes and took up the gown. They re-dressed.

“How do I look?” asked Sherlock, twirling.

“Great.”

John bowed. The elegant gesture unsettled Sherlock, but she returned it with a stiff curtsey. Then, John pointed toward the fields.

“Pluck!”

The penny dropped. Sherlock roared. “Teach me how to pluck, John, and I will finish your quota.”

John nodded eagerly.

They walked back to the fields. Sherlock took up the basket and, with John’s demonstrations, quickly learned how to pluck the choicest buds. In a short time, the pair was at the end of the row. They spread the buds on the final bamboo mat to dry.

“It is quite demanding work,” admitted Sherlock.

“Let’s go!” cried John, and she ran toward the hills. Sherlock chased her. They reached the small door in the stone wall and slipped through it easily. Sherlock’s clothing lay strewn in a line toward the pond; she heard a loud splash. Sherlock shook off the filthy garments and leapt into the water after John. They swam to the far end and back. They pushed out of the water and sat side by side dripping on a flat rock.

Sherlock felt something foreign inside her. It was heavier than infatuation and lighter than lust. It was more temperate than attraction but more resonant than camaraderie.

John named it.

“Friends?” John asked.

“I don’t have any,” replied Sherlock.

John shook her head. “You. Have. One. Me.” She pointed to herself.

“And you have me, John,” Sherlock pledged. _Forever and always._

 

Sherlock did not try to school her features into cool disinterest until long after the two had re-dressed in their original costumes and were walking back to the fields.

“Safe?” asked John, pointing to the wide expanse of drying tea.

“I’ll keep watch,” said Sherlock.

John yawned.

“Go,” said Sherlock. “Rest.”

John nodded and gave a formal curtsey. Sherlock bowed.

“Good night, John.” The two smiled at the cane, lying abandoned among the tea bushes.

Then, John waved and skipped back to town.

 


	7. Exposed and Hidden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's carelessness leads to a new threat.

Sherlock slept a dreamless sleep with a half-smile on her lips. When she woke, the morning sun shone brightly through the chamber window.

Mother Lestrade appeared with the pail and a bundle of clothes. “Here’s your laundry. Yesterday was so tiring that we are all waking late today. Breakfast will be late. But you look exceedingly well. Did something happen? Something to do with a certain lost creature?”

“Perhaps she was lost. But I think I found her—or at least a part of her—last night,” confessed Sherlock. “She is...my _friend_.” The word seemed foreign on Sherlock’s tongue. “My first friend.” The word flowed easier upon repetition.

“Well, allow me to be your second,” said Mother Lestrade.

 _Two friends?_ Sherlock filed the thought for later analysis.

“And I plucked tea,” added Sherlock.

Mother Lestrade’s eyes widened. “I want the whole story tonight. But for now, ready yourself.” She set the pail down on the floor. “A couple of your admirers have already shown up. More to come, I’m sure.”

 

 

Sherlock wondered how soon she could escape breakfast and go find John. She wanted to see if the change in her limbs was lasting and if there had been any effect on her voice. Mostly, Sherlock just wanted to see her friend.

“Master Sherlock, your porridge,” crooned Adler’s Daughter sweetly. Her two younger sisters and her mother were also in attendance at the breakfast table.

“Just tea for me, thanks,” said Sherlock.

“You look famished. Please have some. It will do you good,” she insisted. The words were banal enough, but Sherlock recognized a steely, menacing tone beneath them. The bowl was plopped down in from of her.

Sherlock stared at the mush. With currants, raisins, nuts, and drips of honey, a word was spelled out.

ROSALIND

Sherlock’s blood turned cold. She looked at Adler’s Daughter, who smiled placidly. The smile did not reach her eyes.

_How?_

Sherlock’s hand instinctively went to her cloak. The page of the medical dictionary was not there. She had given it to John, when she had confessed her name. They had switched clothes and then switched back. Where had it ended up? Had it been in the clothes she gave Mother Lestrade for washing? No.

_Stupid, Stupid, STUPID_

The distractions of the previous night had caused her to make a grievous, possibly fatal, act of carelessness. “Let me help you with that.” Adler’s Daughter leaned forward and stirred Sherlock’s porridge with a spoon, dissolving the word.

_What do you want? What are you going to do?_

“Mamá?” called the girl.

“Yes, my dear.”

The girl never took her eyes from Sherlock’s.

“Why don’t we ask Master Sherlock to solve our problem? Master Sherlock, my family is in charge of packing the tea and preparing the Emperor’s tribute. My sisters and I have each drawn a design for the top panel of wooden tribute chest. We have been fighting all morning about whose design is better. Why don’t you be the judge? Come around to the house and view our designs and the one you deem the best will be painted on the chest.”

The two younger Adler sisters agreed heartily.

“Please, please, Mamá!”

“Stop your squawking! It would be an honour to have you in our home, Master Sherlock, and you would be doing me a great service by putting an end to their bickering. You are more than welcome.”

“How can I refuse?” said Sherlock with an insincere smile.

 

 

Sherlock found Master Michael and told him of the dark figure and the threat to the tea. A dark shadow crossed the young man’s face, and he assured Sherlock that he and his family would re-double their vigilance while the tea was being dried. Then, following Mother Lestrade’s directions, Sherlock made her way to the Adler home.

Sherlock was greeted by Mother Adler and shown to an inner courtyard where three sketches hung side-by-side from a clothesline. The first was a bucolic panorama, featuring the High Mountain, the tea fields, and the village. The second was a moment in time from the plucking, tea fields dotted with white-gowned maidens with baskets and hats. The final was a bold scene of a slain black dragon, a young maiden dropping water onto rocks and to dry riverbeds, and cheering villagers.

“These are all fine renderings, to be sure,” said Sherlock. “But the Emperor has become quite the romantic in his old age. I think he will most appreciate this one.” She pointed to the last sketch. "The legend of the black dragon."

The two younger girls’ faces fell.

“Now, now, girls,” said their mother. “You asked for his opinion.”

“Prima always wins,” huffed the youngest. The two girls grumbled a few pleasantries, curtseyed quickly to Sherlock, and left the courtyard.

“Thank you, Master Sherlock. I'm quite flattered. Mamá, shall we show Master Sherlock the tribute chest?”

“Absolutely.” The three walked to the far end of the courtyard, which led to covered area dusted with wood chips. Tools were piled on tables, and in the centre of space was a box with legs covered with a heavy blanket.

Mother Adler continued, “My husband is in the transportation business, Master Sherlock: carriages, horses, wagons, even wheelbarrows, anything that moves something or someone somewhere. But his original love was wood-working. About the only avenue for his love these days is making the annual tribute chest. As with so many things, Daughter is at his side. Such a pity she wasn’t a son.” She sighed. “I will leave you to attend to my duties. By the way, Daughter, your father says that the new axles for the Moran carriage that you and he picked up early this morning are not up to snuff. They are still in the wagon. Before lunch, you must return them to Master Harold. Your father will drop by the blacksmith workshop later and discuss the problems with him.” She sighed again. “Men. Business. Nothing to worry my feeble mind. Good day, Master Sherlock.”

“Good day, Mother Adler.”

When she was out of ear-shot, Sherlock hissed, “What do you want?”

The girl smiled. “Insurance,” she said cryptically. Then, she removed the blanket to reveal a dark wooden box with intricate carvings of leaves and flowers around the sides.

“Examine it.”

Sherlock lifted the lid. The interior was polished smooth. The bottom panel had one small seam down the middle. Sherlock ran her fingers over the exterior decorations. The centre of one of the flowers felt _different_. Sherlock pushed it and the bottom panel sprung away to reveal a second layer, slightly shallower than the main chamber, but hidden from the casual glance by the arches and swirls that fringed the lower edge of the box.

“Contrary to Mamá’s fancies, Papá is much more of a business man than a woodsmith these days. I made the box.”

“What are you going to hide in there? And what does it have to do with me? _And what do you want?_ ”

The heavy silence was pierced by giggles, which grew louder. The girl set the box to rights and draped the blanket over it just as two faces appeared, making kissing noises and snorting.

“Do you ride, Master Sherlock?” asked the girl impatiently.

“Of course.”

“Then, let’s all go riding after lunch. Mamá will approve if we are _chaperoned_.” She cast a pointed look at her sisters. The girls cheered and scampered toward the house.

“ _Then_ will you tell me what this is all about?! _What. You. Want!_ ” Sherlock's mind spun with possibilities. Compounded by the burden of her earlier folly, her head ached.

“Yes.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Thank you for your interesting in my little tale and your patience with the updates. I drank all the Silver Needle so I switched to a white Earl Grey. With lots of lemon.


	8. Ice and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adler's Daughter blackmails Sherlock.

Sherlock and the girl rode through the forest. The younger girls had been bribed with hair ribbons to canter far ahead.

“The tea will be dried for the next three days. The evening of the third day, it will be fire-baked. The following morning, it will be packed. The portion of the tea that is the Imperial tribute will be put in the ceremonial chest, ready for your delivery to the Emperor. The rest will be put into the communal coffers.”

Sherlock huffed impatiently.

“This is what will happen: you will court me, publically and formally, according to our customs for the next four days.”

Sherlock stopped. Her eyes widened. The girl slowed her mount but continued speaking.

“You will announce your departure on the fifth day, that is, the day after the packing. But you won’t leave then.”

“Will I not?”

“No. On the night before your departure, you and I will elope. With the Imperial tribute. We’ll leave a note.” Sherlock stared. “We won’t actually be married. Once we get to the Imperial City, you can take the tribute to the Emperor.” They resumed their slow pace, side-by-side.

“And you’ll take the Silver Needle tea hidden in the bottom of the chest as your...”

“Initial payment on a new life. Just reward for surviving this one. ”

“Your father will pursue us. Demand satisfaction.”

“Ha! Not if I don’t take one of his most prized mounts. Priorities, _Master_ Sherlock.”

“And if I don’t agree to this ridiculous plot?”

“I will expose you—quite literally and grotesquely—as a fraud, as—horror of horrors—a woman. You’ll be disgraced and run out of village. The taint will extend to the Tea Master—if indeed he is your brother. Whatever trouble that sent you here, you’ll be sent back to it. And if it was serious enough for someone of your obvious intellect and preparation to flee the Imperial City and ensconce yourself in this backwater, then it is probably quite unpleasant.”

“I needn’t return to the Imperial City,” argued Sherlock. “I could abandon this ‘backwater’ as you call it, for another part of the realm, even take a boat to a foreign land if I so chose. My brother can take care of himself. He and I do not put much stock in this ‘honour’ business.”

“Ha! You have no idea what a privilege that is. Women here are bound and gagged by ‘honour’ whether we put stock in it or not, and I, for one, can no longer endure it. But to your point, if you flee, I will destroy your accomplices.”

“My what?”

“Aw, don’t be obtuse, Master Sherlock. It doesn’t suit you. Why would Mother Lestrade being doing your laundry? It is a task she abhors and delegates to a house-girl whenever possible. She forbids anyone to disturb you in the mornings, tending to you herself. She’s protecting you. She knows. I expose you, I expose her and bring shame upon her family and further weaken their position in the village—what hasn’t already been weakened by her potty ol’ Papá. There are several who would be very eager to take advantage of such an opportunity and remove Baron Lestrade from power in the council, in the marketplace, everywhere.”

“I barely know her.”

“Hmm. And, you barely know Wat’s Daughter, too. And yet you’ve decided to confide in _her_. Had to be her. You haven't even spoken a word to Harry.” Sherlock gripped the reins tighter. The girl shrugged. “I guess it makes sense, in an odd sort of way, mute for a confidante. I mean who can she actually _tell_?” The girl giggled. “She told me, of course. Not directly, but in a ‘round about fashion. I was suspicious of you from the first day. But now I have evidence, indeed, the most proper _leverage_ to achieve my goal. And the Wat family, I can easily ruin. Papá is already considering obtaining his metal supplies from the neighbouring village. Losing his commissions would strike a severe blow to them, might even give silly Harry the final push he needs to _actually_ drown himself in a bottle. Yes, flee and you’ll have quite a bit on your conscience.”

“I’ve been reliably informed I don’t have one.” Even to her own ears, Sherlock’s voice sounded weak.

The girl sighed. “Really. Unbecoming. Let’s walk from here.”

They dismounted and led their horses by hand.

“Why?” asked Sherlock. “You could escape to the Imperial City tonight.”

The girl laughed bitterly. “Money. Women here have no money of our own. We’re beholden to the whims of our fathers and brothers and uncles and grandfathers for our coins. My father has no sons, so when he dies, all of us—my sisters, my mother, and I—no matter how resourceful or intelligent or _loved_ , will be at the mercy of some cousin that we have never met. The only commodity I have is what is between my legs, but that has only won me provincial trinkets. I need _capital_. And without formal industry, the most valuable commodity in these parts is that bloody tea. I mean to take what I can and trade it for my freedom. And I will burn anyone who gets in my way.”

“I saw the tiniest slip of paper, really nothing more than an ash, in the grate of the blacksmith’s fire this morning. Gold letters. Rosalind. Violet. Sherlock. _You have three names!_ Sickening. You know what they call me?”

“Daughter.”

“Yes,” she said bitterly. “But there are three Alder’s Daughters. Bit of a conundrum that, no? Amongst family, I’m called Prima. My sisters are Dua and Tria. You see? _First, Second, Third._ Even amongst my own, in my own home, I don’t have a name, Master Sherlock, I have a NUMBER! The order I shat out the hole!”

Birds startled from a tree at the outburst.

“But I swear by anything you find holy that I will make it to the Imperial City and on every corner, on every street, the name _Irene_ Adler will be whispered with reverence and awe and, yes, even fear.” They reached the edge of woods, and the trail narrowed. The girl and her mount moved ahead of Sherlock.

Sherlock called, “Irene?”

The girl turned sharply. Tears welled in her eyes. A faint smile dotted her lips, but when she opened her mouth to speak, her voice was icy. “Rest assured, Master Sherlock, our courtship will be an enjoyable one. I am as skilled in saddle of a mare as a stallion. But, first, you must meet Papá. Supper is at dusk.”

“Until then.” Sherlock bowed.

 

Sherlock spent the rest of the afternoon smoking pipe after pipe huddled in the most obscure corner of the far courtyard of the Lestrade home. Suddenly, there was a sharp pain in her foot. She blinked.

“Supper invitation from the Adlers,” said Mother Lestrade, holding out a card. “You were ignoring my calls, so I had to get your attention somehow.” Sherlock took the card. “I wasn’t ignoring you,” she argued.

Mother Lestrade nodded to the card. “What are you getting yourself into, Master Sherlock?”

“ _Now_ I’m ignoring you,” said Sherlock as she passed her hostess on the way out the back gate.

 

 

Supper was tedious. When the family meal and the after-supper brandy-and-cigar with Barron Adler had ended, Sherlock considered that she might have a career in the theatre so consummate was her performance. She had taken her formal leave and was exiting the front gate when Irene ran from the house.

“A token of my esteem.” She pressed a dainty pink handkerchief in the lapel pocket of Sherlock’s coat. The fabric bore a cloying fruit scent. “Lychee,” explained Irene. “My signature.”

“Thank you. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Sherlock hurried through the streets. She felt a tug at her cloak and whipped around with an angry shout.

John jumped back and held her hands up.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,” said Sherlock. _For everything._

John shrugged and smiled warmly. She turned around and marched in a circle, showing-off with obvious delight her new-found strength and dexterity.

_It’s lasted. At least there's that._

John made a motion toward the fields and then pantomimed swimming.

“I can’t go swimming tonight, John.” John nodded, then her face fell. She pulled the handkerchief from Sherlock’s pocket. She waved it angrily at Sherlock and pointed towards her home. She put her hand to her ear.

Sherlock could hear the faint voice of a man, singing, off-key, off-tempo, alternately slurring and cursing. Then, there was breaking glass and more swearing. John shoved the cloth back in Sherlock’s pocket.

“STUPID!” John proclaimed, turned her back and walked away.

Sherlock groaned and trudged back to her room.

 

 

_Alone is what I had. Alone protected me. I should leave. Tonight. And leave these women, this whole bloody village, to their own fates. What are they to me? I refuse to be blackmailed. And yet...were I to be born in this part of the world, would I be any less ruthless than Irene for my freedom? For my voice? For my name?_

_What are my choices? Leave? Surrender? Or stay and fight?_

Sherlock searched the ceiling above the bed for answers.

 

 

_A hand was clamped on her mouth. Sherlock opened her eyes. Irene. “Shhh!” Sherlock leaned up slightly. Irene was naked, straddling her. “Don’t make me use the crop!” she whispered. “Mare or stallion?” Sherlock didn’t speak. Irene chuckled and began to ride her, rocking her hips back and forth. She released Sherlock’s mouth to place both hands on her head and arch her back as she moved. Hairpins cascaded to the floor, and Irene’s dark hair fell to her shoulders like a velvet curtain. She bent to kiss Sherlock. She rose up and resumed her grinding, teasing her own nipples and clit until she keened. Then, she swung off of Sherlock. “It’s been a pleasure,” she cooed._

_Sherlock fell back, feeling hard wood beneath her. She sat up and realized that she had been lying on a  wooden box, an elongated version of the Imperial tribute chest. There were two others, each decorated with one of the Alder Daughters’ designs. She opened the lid. It was empty. Then, she skimmed the edge, looking for the hidden switch. With a click, the bottom opened._

_And there was John._

_John!_

_Still. Grey. Cold._

_The body was packed in dried tea._

_Sherlock hurried to the other boxes only to see Mycroft and Mother Lestrade lain out in their own Silver Needle coffins._

_Sherlock fell to her knees and screamed._

 

 

“Master Sherlock!”

“What!” Mother Lestrade looked as grey as her dream counterpart.

“The tea. It’s been burned.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies that I gave Irene a brother and then took him away! Hazard of the way that I write. The earlier chapter's been edited. Final verdict: no brother.


	9. Loud and Soft

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter Moriarty and Moran. John doctors; Sherlock investigates.

“Not all of it,” said Mother Lestrade. “But about a quarter. One entire pavilion. What’s survived is being moved now from the uncovered drying areas to the covered drying areas for the next two days. Master Michael was attacked and badly injured. There’s a call for an emergency meeting of the council of elders. Now. I am getting Papa ready. Ready yourself quickly. I can take him, but I am not allowed to stay. You’ll stay with him?”

“Alright,” said Sherlock, reaching for her clothes. “Go see Wat’s Daughter. Tell her about Master Michael. She may be able to help him.”

“She’s no doctor.”

“She’s more than any of you think. Go.”

 

When the trio reached the meeting spot, they heard angry voices, but when Baron Lestrade appeared, the space quieted. There were deferential nods and greetings until the Baron was seated, Sherlock at his side. Then, the voices erupted anew. A dark-haired older man stood up and pointed an accusing finger at Baron Stamford.

“ _You_ were in charge of security! This is a travesty!”

The assembly rumbled.

“Baron Moriarty, we are all upset about the night’s events. None more so than I, who have a son grievously injured by some unknown assailant or assailants!”

“Baron Stamford, perhaps if your son had more than a cheerful disposition with which to protect himself and the tea, he would not be in his current state.”

“Guns? You want armed guards! Guns do more harm than good,” warbled Baron Lestrade, rising to his feet. “You want to turn our peaceful village into a police state! Oh, oh, oh!” Baron Lestrade collapsed in his chair, trembling, rubbing his head, and mumbling to himself. His spectacles hung precariously from his ear; he took them off and placed them in his lap.

“I want our tea safe! I want our _investment_ secure.” He looked around at the men seated; some nodded in agreement. “And, perhaps, if we were to bring this community into the current century and invest in something in addition to fickle agriculture, then we might weather this particular type of storm more readily. Diversify! _Industry_!” He extended his hands and waved them.

“Now, now, Baron Moriarty. The latter are issues for another day. What is pressing today is the security of the remainder of the communal supply of tea and investigation into the incident last night so the culprits can be identified and brought to justice.”

“Well, just know that when this crisis is over, I will be calling for a vote on council leadership! We need new vision for our town and the surrounding lands!”

Baron Stamford sighed. “Very well.”

A beefy-faced older man with a ginger beard stood up. “To your first point, Baron Stamford, I propose that Baron Moriarty and myself be in charge of security from here on out. Clearly, your efforts are not working. Our sons and their associates will secure the tea for the remainder of the drying process _by any means necessary_.”

“Baron Moran...”

“Shall we put it to a vote?” asked Baron Moriarty, looking around at those gathered.

“Yes, yes!” was the reply.

“Alright,” said Baron Stamford. “All those in favour of Baron Moran’s proposal, raise your hand and say aye.”

A resounding ‘Aye’ was heard.

“All opposed, say ‘Nay.’”

“Nay!” cried Baron Lestrade, but few joined him.

Baron Stamford shook his head slowly. “The ayes have it. Alright, as far as the baking...”

“I am still in charge of the baking!” Master Harold burst in the room. He looked dishevelled and wild-eyed, with a quiver on his back, bow in hand. The stench of spirits and sweat rolled off him.

“So nice of you to join us, Master Harold,” said Baron Stamford, his voice straining at politeness.

“Crawl out of a bottle, did you, Harry?” called a young dark-haired man in the back. Laughter erupted. Master Harold’s countenance grew dark.

“Master James, sit down and please refrain from making incendiary comments. Tempers are flying high enough,” said Master Stamford.

“We will secure the baking and packing processes as well,” added Baron Moran.

“I dare anyone to mess with me!” In a flash, Master Harold had pulled out an arrow, drawn his bow, and was brandishing it at the youth who had insulted him. Cries of alarm went up.

Then, a blonde youth seated beside Master James stood up and returned the gesture with a cocked pistol.

Pandemonium broke out.

Men were scrambling under chairs and out the doors. aron Moran advanced on his son, barking, “Seb! Put that down, you ape!”

Baron Stamford was moving back and forth between the two young men.

“Master Harold! Master Sebastian! Stop it! Now! Put those away or I’ll have you both arrested!”

The young men held each other’s gaze for a moment and then lowered their weapons. Slowly, the attendees crawled out from their hiding places. Baron Moran took the gun from Master Sebastian’s grip and boxed him on the ear. Sherlock noted, however, that the youth did not sit until Master James tapped the back of his leg surreptitiously.

Baron Stamford bent his head and rubbed his eyes; his shoulders heaved. “Master Harold, if you can control yourself, then you shall continue as lead in the baking. If I learn of any, and I mean any, evidence to the contrary, the duty shall be reassigned to another. Understood?” Master Harold cowed and nodded. He slumped in a chair; the bow and arrow clattered to the floor. “I may no longer be in charge of security.” Baron Stamford gave a rueful look at Baron Moriarty and Baron Moran. “But I am still Head of the Council of Elders until the village decides otherwise.” He stood tall, brushed his cloak and straightened his tie.

At the lull, Sherlock stood.

“Baron Stamford, if I may, I offer myself as an investigator into the incident of last night and the prior threat to the tea?” The crowd tittered. “I am independent, impartial observer to these proceedings.”

Master James rose. “You’re an outsider! What can you possibly discover?”

Sherlock narrowed her eyes at him. “The truth,” she said coldly. “ _By any means necessary_.” The youth’s teeth gleamed white as a serpentine smile broke across his lips. He gave a small deferential bow to Sherlock and sat, still smiling.

“Any objections to our guest’s proposal?” asked Baron Stamford.

Baron Moriarty and Baron Moran cleared their throats and made to rise from their chairs.

Baron Stamford cut them off. “No? Good. Baron Moriarty, Baron Moran, please afford our Imperial visitor every consideration and assistance in his task. Master Sherlock, I will expect full updates on your progress.” He spoke quickly, “And now, as I am eager to know the state of my boy, I declare this council meeting adjourned.”

The men rose, chattering as they dispersed. Sherlock helped Baron Stamford to his feet. She received a pat on the back and a quick ‘Thank you’ from Baron Stamford as he made his way to the exit, but others eyed her with suspicion.

Sherlock and Baron Lestrade had only walked a few paces when Master Donovan appeared.

“Hullo, I’m to see you home, Papá!”

The Baron began to titter.

“Infernal thief! Stole my spectacles again, did you?”

Sherlock replied, “I’ll go get the spectacles, and catch up with you.” Master Donovan nodded.

The assembly space appeared empty when Sherlock retrieved the pair of spectacles from under a chair. She froze when she heard voices.

“Huh, huh, huh, the ol’ men did okay, eh, Boss? Just like you learned ‘em. Huh, huh, huh.”

Sherlock spied Master James and Master Sebastian in a far darkened corner.

“Shut up, Seb,” said Master James. “Master Sherlock?”

“Master James.”

“You should be careful, sticking your nose in where it doesn’t belong. Might get cut off.” The young man approached Sherlock, swaying nonchalantly, hands in the pockets of his cloak. “A big black dragon might eat it. Might eat you.”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” Sherlock looked at Master Sebastian. “It was you who tried to burn the tea the second night of plucking.” The blonde youth just gave a goofy grin and snorted. “Maybe you’re responsible for last night as well.”

“You have no proof of anything,” said Master James.

“No, but I’ll find it.”

“No, you won’t.” Master James sing-songed. “You fancy you’re an Imperial investigator, but really you’re just an awfully curious boy who looks like he just had his first shave.” Master James raised a finger to Sherlock’s jaw, and she flinched. Master James chuckled and lowered his hand.

Sherlock’s voice was low; she leaned in and breathed in his face. “You fancy you’re a criminal mastermind, but you’re just a peasant psychopath who sleeps in the chicken coop.” Like a magician conjuring a coin, Sherlock furled her hand and produced a downy feather. Master James’ face grew red, and his eyes were murderous. Master Sebastian guffawed. “Or maybe you just are awfully _close_ to someone who sleeps with chickens.” She turned her head toward Master Sebastian. He was still chuckling.

“Huh, huh, huh. Jimmy sleeping in the chicken coop! That’s funny. Oh, uh...” His mirth died when he saw Master James’ expression.

“Shut. Up. Seb!”

“If you don’t get out of my way, Master Sherlock, the big, black dragon will eat you.” Master James sauntered toward the exit with Master Sebastian in tow. “And no one will ever hear from you again.”

“Catch you later,” said Sherlock to the retreating figures.

“No you won’t!” called Master James.

 

Mother Lestrade asked, “How did it go?”

“I’ll tell you later. I’ve been tasked to investigate the event last night. How is Master Michael?”

“Not good. He suffered a nasty blow to the head.”

“Is he speaking?”

Mother Lestrade shook her head. “By the way, Wat’s Daughter is...remarkable. Her knowledge of herbs and other treatments. And her legs! She didn’t give any clues as to what happened, but...”

“Later,” said Sherlock, pressing the spectacles into Mother Lestrade’s hands. “The game is afoot.”

 

 

Sherlock was ushered into the inner courtyard of the Stamford home.

“I hope you can aide us in finding out who did this,” said Baron Stamford. “He’s in there.” He pointed to an inner chamber. “My wife and Wat’s Daughter are tending to him. My wife tells me that Wat’s Daughter is quite the medicine woman. Who would’ve guessed! Our families were all so close at one time. Ah well, I am rambling. Such is the lot of worried father.”

“May I see him? I promise not to disturb him.”

“Of course.”

 

Sherlock knocked softly on the door; John appeared, hair tied, sweat-shined brow.

_She’s beautiful._

She turned her back to Sherlock but did not close the door. Master Michael was on a simple cot, head bandaged, eyes closed. Sherlock felt a twinge of something at see such a jovial creature wearing such a solemn expression.

John crossed her arms at her chest and did not speak. No one else was in the room.

“John, whatever you think of me...personally, I _am_ investigating this incident. I... _like_...Master Michael...” The words rang odd, like a recently-learned idiom in a foreign tongue. _This town is corrupting me completely._ “...and want to bring the perpetrator to justice. Has he spoken?”

John shook her head.

“May I see the wound?”

Sherlock helped to roll and steady Master Michael while John removed the bandages. Sherlock looked closely.

“Back of the head. He was struck from behind. Not a rock...,” said Sherlock. John shook her head. She used her hands to indicate something long. Then, she replaced the dressings. She and Sherlock eased Master Michael back to his resting position.

“Stick? Club?” asked Sherlock, tapping her lips with her fingers. “Did you see the original wound? Anything unusual?”

John went to the hearth and swiped her finger. She held a black finger up to Sherlock.

“Ash?” John nodded. “There was ash in the wound? But he would’ve hit Master Michael and then set the fire, there wouldn’t be ash...unless...”

Sherlock looked at John. “Unless he used the same torch he did the first night, the night we saw him.”

John shrugged. “Stupid?”

Sherlock inclined her head and pursed her lips. Then, she returned the shrug.

“It’s very difficult to find good help these days, John, especially if you’re a burgeoning criminal mastermind living in the back of beyond. Not everyone can be as fortunate as I.” John gave her a puzzled smirk. “Where are his clothes?” John pointed to a bundle in the corner. Sherlock scoured them and threw them down with frustrated sigh. “Cloak?” John took it from a hook on the door and handed it Sherlock. Sherlock gave a little yelp as she pulled one tiny feather from the underside of the collar.

John went to her bag and pulled out a small paper envelope. Sherlock placed the feather carefully in the envelope, sealed it and handed it to John.

“Keep it. I’m off the scene of the crime.” Sherlock headed toward the door. She stopped and turned. “You don’t need me to tell you this, but...” Sherlock nodded to Master Michael, “...good work.”

John smiled and curtsied. Sherlock winked and let the door close behind her.

 


	10. Public and Private

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Irene tells the truth; Sherlock lies by omission.

Sherlock hurried to the pavilions but was waylaid by Irene.

“Imperial investigator, hmm? I like investigators and the tales of investigators.”

“What do you want?”

“You did very well at dinner the other night. Time to step up the performance, however. Promenade.”

“Whatever,” said Sherlock impatiently.

“Before supper, many villagers take a stroll around the main plaza. I want to be seen arm-in-arm with you. Will be the icing on the proverbial cake.”

“Fine,” hissed Sherlock, “but in return, I want a truthful answer to one question.”

“Fine. Meet me at the edge of the woods at four.”

Sherlock continued on her way.

 

 

Sherlock spent the rest of the morning in the pavilions, studying the burnt tea, the edifices, and the surrounding grounds. Afternoon found her back at the Lestrade inner courtyard smoking.

“The Moriartys and the Morans?” she asked Mother Lestrade.

“Late-comers to the village, relatively. But power-hungry. Very eager to displace the establishment, such as Papá and Baron Stamford. Want to bring industry to the village—which, I suppose, in and of itself, is not a bad thing, but, of course, they’ll want the profits from our modernization and all its perks to go to them and their families.”

“The sons?”

“Bad ‘uns, as they say. In trouble all the time. Especially Master Sebastian. He’s Master James’ lapdog. Does whatever he says and is not afraid to be brutal. Master James is the brains.”

“I’m sure they’re behind this business.”

“Really?! Do you have proof?”

Sherlock shook her head.

“Find some, Sherlock, quickly. Before they destroy the entire village livelihood and send us all even further into the dark ages.” She made to leave the courtyard, then stopped and turned back. “And what is the business with you and Adler’s Daughter?”

Sherlock rolled her eyes. “I’m late for my assignation.” She got up and headed for the gate.

“You seem to be entangling yourself with all the village villains, Master Sherlock!”

“Just because I am on the side of the angels, doesn’t mean I am one of them, Mother Lestrade.” Sherlock gave a quick bow before disappearing out the gate.

 

 

When Sherlock arrived at the meeting spot, Irene was not there. Tiny scraps of pink fabric led further into the woods. Sherlock followed them. They led to a secluded area thick with the scent of lychee. Irene stood, naked, in the centre of a stream, with her back to Sherlock. She turned and gave a look of mock surprise.

“Oh!” she said, running her hands over her breasts and torso, “you caught me bathing!” She strode toward the stream bank. “Want to help?” she winked, handing Sherlock a bar of strongly-scented soap.

“Answer my question,” said Sherlock flatly.

“Why?”

“Because you live off the whims of imbecilic and take your clothes off to make an impression. Stop boring me and answer my question. I’m far more interested in your mind than...anything else, as fetching as the presentation is.” Sherlock thrust the bundle of clothes on the nearby rock at the girl.

As Irene dressed, she said, “You’d better stop, Sherlock Holmes, or I might just fall properly in love with you.”

Sherlock huffed and gave a dismissive gesture with her hand. “Paying attention now?” Sherlock asked when Irene was fully clothed.

“Yes.”

“Did you stain the white gowns? I need to know what’s related and what’s not.”

Irene bit her lip.

“Did you?” Sherlock grabbed her by the arms and shook her.

“Yes! Alright! Petty and childish and I don’t care! _Mother Lestrade_.” Irene spat the last words. “Sanctimonious. Holier-than-thou. With her stupid face! And her stupid eyes! Always looking down at me! Just because I want something out of this life! Just because I’m not content to bow down to tradition and family and honour and whatever ludicrous rules some _man_ foists on me. She can bury herself alive in this cemetery! I am getting _out_. Before I turn into _that_!” Irene kicked a red-capped mushroom.

“Maybe she feels as you do,” said Sherlock. They were walking side-by-side to the edge of the forest. “But is not quite as... _ruthless_...about realizing it.”

Irene scoffed.

They had just reached the clearing when Sherlock halted and said, “Irene....” And before Sherlock’s mind could catch up with her— _what_ was _it about this village?!_ —ever-evolving sentiment, she wrapped the girl in a tight embrace, brushed her lips across dark hair, and whispered in her ear, “Your methods are intolerable, but I am not unsympathetic to your plight.”

Irene broke the embrace and looked up at Sherlock. Her face was clownish—a cruel painted expression framing soft eyes. “You. Had. Better. Stop.” Then, she strode resolutely from the trees. “Come on, then, let’s promenade.”

 

It was dark when Sherlock made her way back to the pavilion. She bent down to run a finger through any ash-covered floor, silently cursing herself. Then, she heard the click of a cocked pistol and metal at her temple.

“Sherlock Holmes, we thought you were an intruder,” said a child-like voice. “Could’ve easily shot you by mistake.” Sherlock rose to her feet slowly with hands raised.

Master James stood before her with Master Sebastian holding the gun at her head.

“But where’s the sport in that?” countered Sherlock.

“Indeed,” said Master James. He gave a quick nod, and the gun was lowered. “Still looking for clues?” he asked, hands in cloak pockets, idly sweeping the ash with his shoe. He shrugged. “Not going to find any.”

“I don’t understand...”

“How difficult is that for you to say?”

“Not very. I don’t understand much about this village. What’s it all _for_?”

“Bored. Someone of my...inclinations...gets so dreadfully bored here, and I’ve gotten tired of my father’s talking about amassing millions—and not actually amassing any—to send me to the capital where, so I’m told, one can wreak _proper_ havoc. Need to make my own way. Much for the same reasons, I expect, you’re frolicking with Adler’s Daughter.” Master James frowned as he plucked a pink handkerchief from Sherlock’s cloak pocket. “Stinks.”

“Huh, huh, huh, he’s taken a ride on the village bicycle, eh, Jimmy?” Master Sebastian chuckled and scratched the back of his head with the pistol.

“I wonder why it’s always the _bicycle_ that gets disparaged and not the _ridership_? She and you,” Sherlock nodded to Master James, “have much in common.”

“Really?” said Master James with raised eyebrows. “Interesting. Well, your sleuthing is over for the day, Master Sherlock.” Master James stuffed the handkerchief back in Sherlock’s pocket. “Unless you want your next—far more _pressing_ case—to be ‘How to get a bullet out of my spine in less than thirty seconds.’”

Sherlock bowed. The two men bowed in return.

 

 

Sherlock shook her head and muttered to herself all the way back to the village. She knocked softly on the door of John’s laboratory.

The door cracked, and a sliver of face appeared.

“How’s Master Michael?”

“Bet-ter.”

“Talking?”

“No.”

Sherlock sighed. “I can’t think. I don’t want to go back to that house, and I need to think. And I stink.” She held up the pink handkerchief. “Let’s go swimming. Please.”

John opened the door wide and smiled.

 

 

They were seated beside each other dripping on the flat stone, when Sherlock said, “Ash. There’s a lot of ash in this problem. Luckily, I’ve written a little monograph on the subject: ‘An analysis of 243 different types of ash.’ Unpublished, of course, as yet, but you should read it. Fascinating.”

John laughed.

“John, when this is all done. Do you think you would come to visit me in the capital? Read my monograph and whatnot?” Sherlock added the last part quickly.

_Friends, Sherlock, friends._

John’s smile faded.

“Har-ry.”

Sherlock frowned. John gestured with her hands.

“He’d need to give you permission? Of course, he would. And you’d need a chaperone? Right, well. How about Mother Lestrade? Could she...? No, of course, not, then you’d need two permissions, two chaperones.” Sherlock growled in frustration.

_Delete._

“Back to the case. Master James and Master Sebastian. They’re behind the whole thing. I know it! I just can’t prove it!”

John dipped her finger in the water and drew on the rock.

“They’re cousins.” John put her finger to her lips. “It’s secret.” John nodded. “But, John, they’re also...” Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Both women made a disgusted face. “You know, John, this village is living up to practically every stereotype of rural life, good and bad.” John shrugged. She made a pantomime. “Yes, Master Sebastian is a nasty bit of goods, but he’s just the muscle. Master James is the real threat. I know, I know, tell Master Michael that. I shall if he ever wakes up.” John shook her head slowly, and then she pulled out the pink handkerchief and raised her eyebrow in inquiry.

Sherlock said, “Forget that. Let’s race.” She dove into the water. Sherlock swam and swam, lapping the pond continually until her lungs burned and her muscles ached.

_I need to tell her about Irene. Maybe if I can think better if I talk it out loud. Figure out a way to get out of this noose around my neck._

But when Sherlock surfaced, she saw John’s sleeping figure curled up on the rock.

_Under my cloak._

_Oh! Oh, John!_

Sherlock’s cacophony of thoughts quieted.

John snuffled, and the cloak shifted.

_She’s naked. Beneath my cloak._

Sherlock inched her way to the far end of the rock, never taking her eyes from John.

_Another place, another time, I would turn her. Slowly, gently, tenderly. Not wake her, no. But lick her so softly, so sweetly that her own mind took her to an erotic dreamland. An aquatic fantasy where a mermaid was pleasuring her. Teasing her, touching her, exactly the way she desired. Bring her to peak after peak until her legs were splayed and her back arched. Until she was damp with perspiration and dripping with satisfaction. Until her thighs were on my shoulders, and I had catalogued her sound and scent and taste and movement down to the last quiver. Until I could write a monograph on the Pleasure of John Watson._

Sherlock thought all these things, but what she did was to sit in silence at a distance and watch her— _friend_ , her mind supplied—sleep. And when dawn threatened to break, she switched John’s cloak for her own and disappeared through the small door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> May try my hand at a proper mermaid fic, one of these days.


	11. Forward and Backward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone's schemes move forward. Until they don't.

Sherlock’s day started at lunchtime

“Letter for you from the Imperial City,” said Mother Lestrade.

Sherlock tore it open and hopped excitedly.

“Oh, Mycroft! Well done. Must dash!”

She ignored Mother Lestrade’s curious gaze and hurried out the gate toward the blacksmith’s shop.

A strong arm grabbed her.

“Hello, lover,” cooed Irene. “Here’s your note. Sign.”

With vexed grunting—“Can’t be bothered with this now! Like anyone would believe I’d say those things!”—she signed and went on about her way.

Sherlock burst into the smith shop.

“John! John!”

“Who you callin’ John?” growled Master Harold. “My father’s been dead for years!”

_Stupid, stupid, stupid._

“Excuse me,” said Sherlock, retreating.

“There is no excuse for you!” cried Master Harold, advancing on her. “You come here with your fancy dress and your fancy ways and think you can waltz into the village and take and do whatever you want! We don’t need you! We don’t want you!”

In the midst of Master Harold’s rant, John appeared with an expression that was equal parts wariness and confusion. Sherlock looked at her with urgency and clenched the letter tighter in her fist, but said nothing.

“What are you looking at her for? You think every girl in this village is yours for the pickings? Look at her again! It’ll be the last thing you see because I’ll drive an arrow through your eye!”

Sherlock backed out the door as Master Harold took up the quiver and bow, which had been propped against a wall.

“Later” mouthed John; Sherlock nodded and disappeared.

 

 

‘Later’ proved to be much later.

It was dark when Sherlock spied John and her brother leave the shop with a wagon laden with tools. Sherlock’s breath caught and her heart pounded in her chest when she noted John’s return. She flew to the door to the laboratory and waited.

“John! The answer to your voice is here. I’m sure of it! My brother wrote back.” Sherlock fanned the many pages under John’s nose. “I described to him your symptoms and the materials available here. He has sent back his own thoughts and the latest medical thinking from the Imperial City. It's is here, John, I know it!”

John’s eyes lit up, and she smiled.

“Here, I’ve read this already.” Sherlock handed John the first two pages. “See what you think, and let’s get to work!”

They were elbows-deep in a fourth experiment when Sherlock sighed. She reached in her pocket and wiped her brow with her handkerchief. The scent of lychee filled the tiny space.

John rolled her eyes and huffed dramatically.

Sherlock bit back, “If you knew how to burn a piece of paper properly, I wouldn’t be in this mess!” She waved the handkerchief in John’s face.

“What?!” mouthed John angrily.

The whole story tumbled out of Sherlock.

 

 

By the end, John looked stricken. Tears welled in her eyes.

“Sor-ry.” She rubbed her hands in her hair and turned away from Sherlock.

“It’s...okay, John. I’m going to figure a way out of it by tomorrow night...” Sherlock's hand hovered just over John's head.

John turned back again and shoved the heels of her hands in her eyes, eyes that were round and frightened when her hands fell.

“Har-ry!” She ran out of the shed, slamming the door behind her. Sherlock followed her to the front house, where she saw John grab the quiver and bow and disappear into the night.

 

 

When they reached the outdoor ovens on the far side of the drying pavilions, both gasped.

Master Harold lay with eyes closed on the ground in front of roaring ovens, _in front of row after row after row of tea reduced to ashes!_

John ran to her brother. “Har-ry!” There was no response. She checked his neck and wrists.

“Alive?” asked Sherlock

John nodded and pointed. They lifted his body carefully and placed him on a soft bank of grass some distance from the ovens.

“No obvious injury. He smells strongly of spirits,” said Sherlock as they examined him. “But not his mouth, smell.” John did. “Someone wants us to think that he got drunk and burnt all the tea.”

John shook her head and removed her brother’s tunic. “Drug?” she asked.

“Very likely,” said Sherlock. “Here,” she said, indicating a purple scratch on the man’s neck. John made a gesture. “Yes, go get your bag. I want to look at the tea.”

 

 

Sherlock walked back to the ovens and the piles of ash. She studied them, moving further and further into the baking area. She heard a rustling.

“John! This is not Silver Needle! Well, not completely. There is some Silver Needle ash here, but mostly this is the ash of some other vegetation, quite possibly holly or another creeping vine.”

“Excellent, Master Sherlock! Clever, clever.” Master James appeared. “But you see, right now, you’re in my way. And tonight, I am a very busy man.”

Metal clicked. Master Sebastian stood in behind Sherlock with pistol cocked. Sherlock raised her hands.

“You’re actually going to murder a representative of the Emperor?”

“Oh, my plans for you, Master Sherlock, are much more creative than a bullet in your brain! But, yes, to put it succinctly. If you will.” He motioned for Sherlock to walk. Sherlock turned and eyed the gleaming pistol, but suddenly, one arrow, and then a second, stuck out from beneath Master Sebastian’s extended arm, and he crumpled with a groan.

The pistol hit the ground.

“Take him down now!” growled Master James.

Sherlock felt a stinging scratch against her neck, and then everything went black.

 


	12. Bound and Freed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sinister plot is revealed and Sherlock confesses her feelings.

_Dark._

_Damp._

_Cold._

Sherlock was moving. Or rather, being moved.

_Colder._

A shadowy face hovered in the dark.

“Master Sherlock, I’m so dreadfully sorry we have to part like this. It does warm my heart, however, that your final thoughts will be of Irene Adler, the woman who beat you, and who—almost—saved you.”

Metal clinked on stone, and then footsteps, Sherlock’s own footsteps, retreated.

 

 

_Damp._

_Dark._

_Cold._

Something was moaning.

_Me?_

Sherlock flexed and relaxed her muscles, one-by-one.

_Sore, probably bruised, but not severely injured._

She pried her eyes open and allowed them to adjust to the darkness. The moaning emanated from a lump some distance in front of her. She eased slowly onto her hands and knees and crawled forward.

Metal clanked loudly. Sherlock raised her hands to her face.

_Shackled!_

She looked at the walls.

_Tethered!_

Her legs were free, but she could not reach the lump. She looked up.

She was in a round stone chamber beneath the earth.

_Well? Silo?_

She could see faint flecks of daylight far above her head. A high rickety staircase lined one wall.

_Creak!_

A figure appeared at the top of the staircase.

_Steps, footsteps, smaller, lighter, quicker, approaching._

“Master Sherlock! Good, you’re awake, perfect timing.”

“Moriarty.”

“Ha! Reny said you had a way with names. I like that. Moriarty. Yes, yes, must keep that. No more Master James. He’s a peasant. Dead. Just like poor Seb. No, I’ll have them call me Moriarty. Just Moriarty. Must also thank you for turning me on to the possibilities of Adler’s Daughter, that is, _Irene_ , that is, _Reny_ , as I call her now that we’re chummy, and myself. I confess I didn’t see the connection, but you did, and I applaud you. Like minds, she and I, most certainly are. Much more suitable ally—at least temporarily, let’s face it, everyone’s _expendable_ —than ol’ thick-headed Seb, regardless of his _other_ attributes. Yes, that was clever of you to see. Clever, clever boy—oh, what am I saying? Clever _girl_. Yes, yes, well. Clothes make the women and women make the clothes and that frock—Reny’s frock, of course—she’s headed toward the Imperial City now , right now, in _your_ garb right down to your tippity-tappity shoes with the Emperor’s tea—Reny’s frock really _makes_ you.”

Sherlock growled and kneeled, pulling her feet under her and pushing away from the floor to stand, and then, fall when the chains yanked her back to the stone floor.

“Uh-uh-uh. Now that’s just silly. I don’t have a lot of time so here’s the plan. I am a villain, an ol’ fashioned storybook villain. And as a villain, I’m going to explain everything to you and then, leave you to die. Easy-peasy.”

“John.” Sherlock spit the garbled word.

“Who? Oh! Is that what you call her? Yeah, well. She was nobody. Until she killed Seb. And that, well, that has to be answered for. Hate getting my hands dirty. That’s what Seb was for.” Moriarty nodded toward the lump and rubbed the knuckles of one hand, chuckling. “Had to be done. But since I’m a glass-half-full kind of guy, I will say that the up side is that her bastard of a brother will hang for Seb’s death. She made it way to easy for me. Set it up so nicely, with the quiver and the bow and whatnot. Just a little re-staging, that’s all it took. They’re hauling his drunk arse to jail as we speak. Then, he can think about all those childhood taunts he threw at me, while he’s walking to the noose. They’re finding your note—handsome signature, by the by—and I must rush to volunteer to lead the search party to hunt you and Adler’s Daughter down.”

Sherlock frowned.

“She took her daddy’s best horse. Horse, of course! I’ll be sent with my own lightening steed to find it, but I won’t find it or her, will I? I’ll be history, making my way in the Imperial City in true storybook villain fashion, with half the profits—oh, who are we kidding? _all_ the profits—of the Silver Needle that Reny has so thoughtfully carried away for us. Clever of you to know about the ash. Yes, yes, I need to leave this foolish village behind me and start fresh. Nobody’s look for you here, they think you’ve eloped. Nobody’s looking for that little urchin—if they ever did. You both will shrivel and die in the belly of this beast.”

“Where?”

“Ah, you know those stories of the black dragon? All nonsense, invented by Mamás and Papás in the early days to prevent us little boys from playing up here in the mountain. The first thought of the Old Ones, Stamford, that dotty Lestrade, and ol’ Baron Wat, was not tea—no, that came later. The first thought was _gold_. So they dug a mine, deep into the mountain, and searched and searched. Nothing doing, abandoned, of course, but makes for a wonderful hidden playground for little boys—and well, I confess, big boys, too. Time’s up. Good-bye, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock lunged at the retreating figure and toppled to the stone floor.

_CLUNK!_

 

 

_Damp._

_Dark._

_Cold._

“John!”

The lump moved, shuffling, groaning. John raised her head.

Sherlock gasped.

The face she saw in the darkness was her brave, beautiful girl.

_Battered and broken._

Something died inside Sherlock in that instant, and for the rest of her days, she would be on the side of the angels, but never one of them.

_Enemy. I have an enemy. An archenemy. One I will destroy. Annihilate. Without compunction._

_If I live. If we live. When we live._

“John, we have to find a way out of here. Can you move? Are you chained as well?”

John gave a small bleat and inched forward. Metal scraped against the stone.

Sherlock pulled against her shackles. She tried to slip her hand from the cuffs to no avail. She slumped.

“John, I will get us out of here. I will set everything right and avenge every single thing that was done to you. You have my word.”

Metal clinked again. John crawled towards Sherlock and then gave a soft cry and collapsed.

Sherlock realized that they were not that far apart, chained to opposite walls. She could see John better now, clothes torn, splattered with dirt and blood.

“He beat you,” said Sherlock quietly.

John nodded.

“With his fists?” John shrugged and nodded. She gave a dismissive wave with one hand. Then, she drew on the stone with her finger.

“With the butt of the gun.” John nodded.

“I will kill him.”

John nodded. “Yes,” she croaked.

“You saved me. You killed Master Sebastian. He would’ve killed me, John.”

With a cavalier nod, John said, “Friends.”

Sherlock spied a delicate smile on John’s lips that lit her heart and made her bold.

“I will be your friend to my last breath, John. Always. But, if we were to be...more...however more you fancied...well, that’d be fine...more than fine...with me. I mean, once, of course, we have our chained-to-the-dungeon-wall days behind us.”

They locked eyes and smiled at each other.

John crept forward. She licked her bottom lip and dabbed her finger to the oozing wound there. Then, she reached as far as her arms would allow. With two strokes, she painted a heart on the stone floor. With her blood.

Sherlock stared, and then, wept. She sobbed into the floor with her heavy hands on the back of her head. John made soft, soothing noises from the other side of the darkness.

_Out, out, out. We. Must. Get. Out._


	13. Good-bye and Farewell

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock and John are rescued. The truth wins out. Sherlock and John say good-bye.

Sherlock yanked at her chains, over and over again. She twisted and curled her hands until they were bloody. She scanned the walls for signs of weakness, to no avail. Finally, she crumpled in despair.

How long she remained in that position she wasn’t certain, but the faint light began to fade and the cold, while before unpleasant, had developed a menacing bite.

Sherlock lifted the hem of her tunic and wiped her eyes.

_Not my tunic. Irene’s tunic._

_Irene!_

_Irene in my clothes; me in Irene’s clothes._

Sherlock recalled the entire exchange.

The metal sound before Irene vanished. Her words: _almost_ saved you.

“John, do you see a key? Anywhere. I think Irene dropped a key. To taunt us.”

Sherlock scanned the floor.

_There it was!_

_Could be a rock, piece of debris, but it might, just might, be a key._

Sherlock strained her eyes.

_Metal, closer to John._

“John! Do you see it? Behind you to the left, halfway to the wall.”

John grunted. She moved slowly toward it, but the chains stopped her.

“Lay down flat and extend your arms and legs as far as you can. That’s right. Now, stretch, stretch!”

John groaned.

“Move your left leg out. There! There! You’ve got it.”

Metal scraped. John inched slowly back to her original position in front of Sherlock. She sat up and held the key in the light.

“Irene! You are a puzzle,” said Sherlock.

John fumbled with the key, but it would not open her shackles. After some time, she wailed.

Sherlock said, “Slide it to me. Perhaps it works on mine.” The key flew across the room. Sherlock grabbed it. With a hard turn, one wrist was free.

“Oh!” cried Sherlock. She quickly unlocked her other wrist. She gingerly got to her feet and stretched.

“John, I will get you out of here.”

“Go!” ordered John.

“I’m not leaving you behind. I’ll figure something out.”

Sherlock made to cross the room when she was suddenly blinded.

“I knew it! I knew it!” called a voice from the top of the stairs.

“Master Sherlock!”

“Mother Lestrade!”

Sherlock’s knees buckled; she fell back to the stone. John groaned.

The woman made her way down the staircase with a bright torch in hand and a heavy sack on her back.

“I knew you didn’t run off with that girl!”

“How did you find us?”

“Us? Oh my God. What did he do to you?”

When Mother Lestrade reached the bottom of the stairs, she flew to John’s side. She gave Sherlock the torch and laid the sack on the stone.

“Master James...,” began Sherlock.

“Yes. I figured that. Master Sebastian is dead, and I’m afraid that Master Harold’s been arrested for it. I’ve got blankets, some clothes.” She looked at Sherlock. “You had better get out of that dress before you return to the village. Some tools, water.”

“Adler’s Daughter left us a key, but it only works for my shackles.”

“Well, I appropriated a few things from your shop, my Dear,” said Mother Lestrade, looking at John, who smiled, “Seeing as how you were missing and your brother, well, otherwise detained. Between the three of us, we should be able to free you.” John nodded. Sherlock took out the implements, and they went to work.

“How...?” repeated Sherlock.

“People have been underestimating me my whole life, Master Sherlock. I am very good at finding things and figuring things out. I heard that Master James had been appointed to search for you and Adler’s Daughter. I saw him leave. He was not provisioned for a search party; he was provisioned for an _exodus_. Where would he put you? Because I thought he had killed you, I’m afraid. People, _men_ , including Master James, sometimes underestimate me to their detriment. I bet he thought that little boys were the only ones who used to play down here. Us girls played, too.” John nodded. “Perfect place to hide a body. Thought, I’m overjoyed to find you both alive. Come on, let’s get out of here. Donovan’s waiting with a wagon at the entrance. He’ll be credited with your rescue, that way it can be entered into evidence.”

And suddenly, John was free. The three whooped. John gulped the water that Mother Lestrade offered. Sherlock changed clothes. Mother Lestrade laid a blanket around John’s arms, and Sherlock carried the torch and satchel. Mother Lestrade cleaned John’s face and her visible wounds. Then, she helped John to her feet. With Sherlock ahead, they moved slowly and carefully up the stairs and through the long tunnels that led to the surface. Before they reached the final exit, John stopped and said,

“Har-ry?”

“He’s not well, John.”

“Tell,” said John to Sherlock.

“John killed Master Sebastian. He would’ve killed me. We discovered how Master James had stolen some of the Silver Needle and mixed a small amount of Silver Needle ash with ash from another tea to make it look as if all the Silver Needle had been destroyed. Irene, that is to say, Adler’s Daughter left with the Silver Needle that survived. Anyway, Master Sebastian had his arm raised to strike me, as he did Master Michael. And John killed him.”

Mother Lestrade’s eyes widened. “But Master Sebastian was shot with a bow and arrow.” John looked at the ground and nodded. “Master Sherlock, we’re not allowed to shoot _anything_. No one will believe it, even if you confess.” John huffed frustratedly. “And Master Harold has _already_ confessed.”

“He wasn’t even conscious when it happened. But...if he were acting in defence of an Imperial representative?” asked Sherlock.

Mother Lestrade nodded slowly. “That may just work. That’s what you should say. I’m sure there’ll be an emergency meeting of the Council of Elders at dawn. We’d best be ready for it.”

 

 

“What you’re saying is preposterous!” cried Baron Moriarty. “My boy did not burn the Silver Needle, he did not steal it, he did not imprison you in some dungeon, and he did not run away! He’s searching for Adler’s Daughter and you.” At the last words, Baron Moriarty’s voice fell slightly and he wiped his brow. “He’s...he’ll return. Right now, it’s just your word against his and he is not here to defend himself.”

“And what about my horse!” cried Baron Adler. “Who’s to compensate me for that?”

The crowd’s murmurs grew louder.

“Quiet, quiet!” cried Baron Stamford.

“Master Harold should be released,” said Sherlock, “immediately. He was acting in defence of an Imperial representative, and therefore, in defence of the Emperor himself. Master Sebastian would have killed me!”

“My boy!” cried Baron Moran. “He’s innocent!”

Baron Stamford tilted his head in consideration. “Why were you in jeopardy, Master Sherlock?”

“Because I discovered that the tea burned was only a minority of Silver Needle. Most of the ash was common black tea. I can prove that with empirical certainty. I believe Master James and Master Sebastian stole the majority of the Silver Needle and recruited Adler’s Daughter to remove it from the village.”

“And what of your supposed engagement to Adler’s Daughter?” asked Baron Stamford, holding up the letter with Sherlock’s signature.

“I was compelled to write that against my will.”

Baron Moriarty rose to his feet. “You expect us to believe a girl _forced_ you to write it?! Everything out of his mouth is lies.”

Sherlock took a deep breath.

_It’s high time your reputation did some good, Irene. Let’s see if it can save my secret._

“The woman in question is not without her methods of _persuasion_.” She gave a knowing glance around the room. The crowd erupted with laughter and more than a few nods.

“Alright, alright,” said Baron Stamford. “But I am afraid that Baron Moriarty is correct, we have only your word that Master James and Master Sebastian are behind these evil acts...”

“Not just his! Mine, too!”

The crowd gasped as Master Michael appeared in a wheeled chair. Mother Lestrade pushed him into the middle of the gathering. She curtsied and disappeared.

“Master Sebastian attacked me under orders from Master James,” said Master Michael. “Everything Master Sherlock says is correct.”

“My son,” said Baron Stamford. “Is it safe for you to leave your sickbed?”

“I could not remain, knowing that an injustice might be perpetrated. Master James is guilty. Before I was struck, I overheard him scheming with Master Sebastian about stealing the Silver Needle, but they had not yet determined how to carry it to the Imperial City for sale.”

“Well,” said Baron Stamford. “We have our corroboration. The charges against Master Harold will be dropped, and he’ll be released. New charges will be brought against Master James, kidnapping, attempted murder, destruction of property, to cite a few, and if he returns, he may speak for himself.”

“A travesty!” cried Baron Moriarty.

“A tragedy!” cried Baron Moran.

“But who will pay me for my horse?!” cried Baron Alder.

“Now, we have the issue of the Silver Needle. The province still owes the Emperor its tribute,” said Baron Stamford.

Baron Lestrade rose to his feet.

“I am an old man. I have listened to the proceedings with an old man’s ears and an old man’s heart. Shocked and appalled by the behaviour of our countrymen; saddened by the disregard for others in the pursuit of material wealth. These are not the values that we sowed so many years ago when we first settled here! Avarice! Egoism! Brute force! No, we valued community, sharing, helping, peaceful resolution, sacrifice by the one for the good of all. Each of your families has your own personal harvest of Silver Needle—and let’s not pretend, you keep the choicest buds for yourself.” Soft laughter rolled through the room. “But tomorrow morning I expect each family to contribute to our gift to the Emperor from their own stock. That we may come together to say ‘We are one. And there is no finer tea in the land than ours!’”

The crowd rose to their feet, clapping and cheering. The Baron gave a solemn bow and took his seat.

Sherlock caught Mother Lestrade wiping a tear from her eye as she peeked around the edge of the tent.

Master Sherlock stood and returned the gesture. In a booming voice, she declared,

“And tomorrow, I will accept your tribute on behalf of the Imperial Tea Master, the entire Imperial Court, and the Emperor himself.”

The cheering continued.

 

 

“Well done, Papá!” said Mother Lestrade.

“You were not supposed to be listening, my Dear.”

“I couldn’t help it. You were splendid. I’m so proud.”

“Even an old dog has its day. Every now and then.”

The old man preened.

 

 

When they were settled back at the Lestrade home, Sherlock asked, “Where’s John?”

“Is that what you call her?”

“It’s what she calls herself.” Mother Lestrade nodded.

“I expect she’s at the jail, until they release Master Harold, then she’ll be home.”

Sherlock sat in the courtyard and smoked until Mother Lestrade cleared her throat. Then, Sherlock flew out the gate, to the Wat residence.

“John?” she called, moving past the blacksmith shop. She mounted the stairs and pushed open a bedroom door. Inside, she saw Master Harold, pale-grey and shivering, with eyes closed. He broke into violent coughing, and Sherlock closed the door. Before she could knock on the door of shed, John had opened it, her arms full of candles, jars, and small tied bundles.

“Har-ry. Sick,” she said, pushing past Sherlock.

“John, I’m leaving tomorrow. All the families are supposed to contribute to the Imperial gift, and once that’s set, well, it’s time for me to be off. I want to go back to the Imperial City, find Master James, and avenge what was done to both of us. Irene, I don’t know. I suspect Master James may have already dealt with her.”

John nodded.

“I...I love you, John. Come with me. I want you by my side. Always. Come. With. Me. _Please_. We’ll figure it out. How to live together. How to _be_ together.”

John flushed and stared at her.

“All. I. Am. All. I. Know. Here. You.” She dropped some of the objects in her arms onto the grass. “Stay. You. Stay. Here. _Please_.”

Tears welled in Sherlock’s eyes. “I don’t...belong...here,” she said.

John dropped her head.

Sherlock picked up the jars and bundles. They walked in silence to the bedroom. Everything was laid on the bedside table.

“Can’t. Leave,” said John. She gestured to her brother. She shrugged. “Never.”

_It sounds like a death sentence._

John looked up into Sherlock’s eyes and leaned into her.

“I won’t touch you, John. I won’t kiss you. Because if I start, I won’t stop. Not until you are wholly and completely mine. So, I guess this is... _good-bye_.” Sherlock could scarcely believe the word. She stepped away from John and bowed. John shook her head angrily.

“Go!” she screamed, turning her back. “Go!”

 

 

Sherlock shut the door, but she did not leave the compound. She returned to the shed. She kept one eye on the upper bedroom window. She saw the candle-light once dusk fell, and she could easily see John moving about, washing her brother, applying various treatments, descending the stairs to retrieve water, food, and linen, nodding off, hand curled under her head. 

But most of Sherlock’s mind was focused on Mycroft’s letter. She lit her own candle and went to work, preparing the suggested remedies. She left them in a row on the table with a short note.

“Dearest John,

That in these treatments, you may reclaim your voice. I shall remain, ‘til my dying day, yours, faithfully,

R. V. Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock extinguished the heat source and the candle. She turned back at the door, hugging the medical encyclopaedia to her chest, and gave the space one final glance. Then, she made her way quietly through the tunnel to the street.

 

 

“No excuses,” said Mother Lestrade. “We’re going to have a cup of tea.”

Sherlock sighed, but didn’t protest.

“I never thanked you properly,” said Sherlock, when they were seated in the dark courtyard, cups in hand. “For saving me.”

“Your...oh, let’s stop the pretence, just for tonight... _sister_ entrusted your well-being to me. And I would forfeit my own life before I would break a promise to her.”

“You...care for her.”

Mother Lestrade nodded. “She visited some years ago, very soon after your father’s passing, when she was just establishing her role. We...became friends. And then, well, more than friends.” Mother Lestrade blushed.

“Mycroft!” said Sherlock under her breath. “And she left you here.”

“She asked me to leave with her, but I refused. I couldn’t leave my father.”

“John won’t come with me, either. I asked her. I told her I loved her. She said she could never leave her brother. Parental duty is a little more understandable, but I can’t see that Master Harold’s worth throwing away your chance at happiness! And we would be happy together, I know it!”

“Don’t judge her too harshly, Sherlock. We’ve live by a code, archaic, absurd, but it’s all we know. You come into our lives and see things so differently. So black-and-white. To you, it seems logical, but to us, it’s so foreign as to be fantastical. Like something out of a storybook.”

They sipped their tea in silence.

Sherlock placed the tumult of feelings that bubbled inside her in a simple cedar box and hid it in a far corner of herself. Then, she finished her tea, bade her ‘good-night’ and went to bed.

 

 

“Villagers of the Eastern Province, I accept this tribute on behalf of your Emperor. I will return to the Imperial City with words of praise, of your fortitude and your ingenuity, of your hospitality and your kindness, of your wisdom and your joyous spirit, of your men and of your women. And the tea, of course, will speak for itself. Long live the people of the East, long live the One Hundred families, and long live the Silver Needle!”

Sherlock bowed.

“Thank you, Master Sherlock. You will always be welcome in the East,” said Baron Stamford, returning the bow.

“Hooray! Hooray!” cried the crowd.

Sherlock led her mount, laden with a cedar box, to the gates of the village and departed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was supposed to be the end. The objective was to see if I could write a love story where the two protagonists don't end up together and never touch. But...I started this story what seems ages ago, and I've softened since then. So there'll be a Happily Ever After Epilogue.


	14. Happily Ever After (Part 1)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our couples reunite and embark on new lives together.

Mother Lestrade walked, head down, fingers toying with the hem of her black tunic. When she reached the door, she looked up.

John sat in the doorway. They stared.

“It’s time,” said Mother Lestrade.

John nodded.

 

 

“Please, please, I need to speak with the Imperial Tea Master,” said Mother Lestrade. Workers rushed passed. No one noticed the pair of pretty, oddly-dressed men in the midst of the bustling carriages, wagons, horses. Crates were stacked high.

“Go to the front gate,” grumbled one man, shoving past John with a heavy crate on his shoulder.

“We’ve already been to the front gate. They told us to come here! Please!”

A carriage arrived, and the driver hopped down.

“It’s imperative that I speak with the Tea Master!” Mother Lestrade looked back and forth. “Won’t anyone help me?”

The driver said, “You’re from the East, eh? I can tell by your accent.”

“Yes! I need to see the Imperial Tea Master. Will you get a message to him for me?”

“Too late, uh, Mister.” The man eyed Mother Lestrade suspiciously. “I just dropped him and his sister off at the port.”

“The port!” Mother Lestrade and John looked at each other.

“He told me to send this by special courier to the Eastern province. If you take it for me, well, there’s something in it for you.” The man jangled two sovereigns in his hand. He held out the letter.

“Yes, yes, of course!” Mother Lestrade dragged John into the street. “It’s addressed to Papá!” She tore open the letter. John read over her shoulder.

“Estimable Baron Lestrade:

By the time this letter reaches your hands, my brother Sherlock and I will be bound for a distant shore. I wanted to extend my sincerest gratitude for your kindness and hospitality...”

“They’re leaving! We’ve got to catch them!” cried Mother Lestrade. She looked around. “Let’s steal a horse!” John’s eyes widened. “Okay. Let’s borrow one.” John nodded.

 

“Trunks secured?”

“Yes!” hissed Sherlock. “I shan’t answer the question a second time!”

“Alright, here’s your ticket. Comfortable suite, two bedrooms with shared sitting area. Fortnight passage.”

Sherlock nodded. The queue of boarding passengers advanced slowly. Sherlock looked back at the milling crowd and thought of John.

_Good-bye._

Then, she saw them.

_Hello!_

“Mycroft.” Sherlock touched her sister’s shoulder. Mycroft turned. Her eyes widened.

“They are the worst-looking men I’ve ever seen,” said Mycroft.

“Indeed,” said Sherlock with a smile. She patted her sister on the back. Then, she inched her way through the throng, never taking her eyes from John, gradually closing the distance between them.

“John!” she called.

John spotted her and smiled. She ran.

Sherlock opened her arms, and John flew into them. Sherlock spun her, holding her tight. Then, she set John down and cupped her face in her hands. John opened her mouth.

“Don’t say a word, John,” said Sherlock. “You’re here to come with me?” John nodded. Sherlock lifted the heavy satchel from John’s back. “Alright. Let’s get you passage. Give me a minute, and I’ll figure something out. Come on. I want there to be ocean between us and this land—so you can’t change your mind.” John laughed. Sherlock took John’s hand in hers. They both stared at their twined hands and squeezed them. Then, they wormed their way onto the boarding ramp.

 

 

Mycroft stared and let the queue pass her by. She walked slowly and carefully down the ramp. She purposefully reminded herself to inhale and exhale until she was facing the girl—no one could actually mistake her for a man.

“Mother Lestrade,” she said, bowing.

“Master Holmes,” said Mother Lestrade, returning the gesture awkwardly.

“You are travelling alone?”

“With John,” said Mother Lestrade, pointing to the pair scampering up the boarding ramp.

“Then, you must accept my sincerest condolences on your loss.”

Mother Lestrade smiled. “Thank you. My father led a long, rich life. He had no regrets on his deathbed.”

“Were that we all so fortunate,” said Mycroft softly. “I’m afraid my time is short...” She looked back toward the vessel.

“Uh...I wished to present you with a farewell gift.” Mother Lestrade set her heavy satchel on the ground and opened it. She handed Mycroft a small wooden box.

Mycroft opened it. “Jasmine-scented Silver Needle.” She smiled. “Thank you.” Their eyes locked and the world faded around them.

“You are emigrating?” asked Mother Lestrade, nervously, after some time.

“Yes, there is a land, far from here, where tea grows just as abundantly. I mean to use my acumen and resources to start anew. Perhaps develop my own estate, with Sherlock’s reluctant assistance.”

“You’re abandoning your position, just like that. Seems impulsive. Not like you.”

Mycroft moved closer to her and whispered.

“The Emperor is not well, and I do not know how much longer he will remain with us. Without him, my position is in no way secure. Sherlock has finished her _tasks_ , but she is not impervious to arrest. We agreed that a change would be in order, for both of us. I have not been greedy, but I have secured my pension, for years of faithful service to His Majesty.”

“You won’t stay with him until the end. You were his confidante. His trusted ear.”

“That is where we differ, my Dear. It’s not in my nature to _sacrifice_ for an intangible. My first loyalty is to myself and those I hold close. His Majesty does not figure into that calculation.”

“But you wrote me. To say good-bye.”

“I...” Mycroft’s voice trailed off. She ran a finger along the edge of the box.

“You would set up a household in this new land?” asked Mother Lestrade.

“Yes, I expect so.”

“And so you’ll be in need of a housekeeper?”

Mycroft frowned. “Are you actually seeking _employment_?!”

“I am seeking to be near you, in whatever capacity I may. I have no other skills.”

“You would abandon your homeland? Master Donovan?”

“In a word, yes. Baron Stamford bought part of the Wat and Lestrade estates and put the rest of our holdings into trusts under the stewardship of himself and Master Michael. Donovan is a young man; he will make his way in the world. I can send for him, if that is his choosing. I spoke with him about my plan; he supports my decision. I want something...different...something new...somewhere where I’m not so...bound.”

Mycroft shook her head slowly. “I don’t know...”

Mother Lestrade opened the box that lay in Mycroft’s hands. Heady fragrance filled the air between them.

“Do you remember...?”

“No. I deleted those memories,” said Mycroft quickly. “On my return journey from the East.”

Mother Lestrade raised an eyebrow. She whipped out the booklet of poems that Sherlock had given her.

“Liar.” She smirked.

Mycroft flushed. She stammered, “The, the, the Emperor has become quite sentimental in his twilight years.”

“Of course. Shall I read a passage? Because I remember this part, very clearly. Ahem.” She opened the booklet. Mycroft put the box under her arm and closed her hands around Mother Lestrade’s and the booklet. “Jasmine! Stop it!” Mycroft scanned the crowd.

“No one’s called me that for years.” Their mouths were close.

“No one’s called you anything but ‘Mother’ since you were nine,” said Mycroft, making a disgusted face. “Horrid.”

“Please, Mycroft, let me come with you. I’ll be... _useful_.”

Mycroft stared at her. “You silly girl, I would not have you as a servant in my household.” Jasmine’s face fell. “I would have you its mistress.” Mycroft set the box carefully back in the satchel. She removed Jasmine’s cap and let long auburn hair cascade around the girl’s face. Then, Mycroft fell to one knee in the middle of the crowd. “Jasmine Lestrade, will you marry me?”

“Yes!” said Jasmine. “But, how...?”

“We’ll be married on board. The captain can do it once we’re at sea. I’ll make it worth his while to overlook the pre-nuptual chamber-sharing and my _ambiguous_ gender. Come on, it’s late.”

The ship’s horn blew, and the pair scrambled aboard.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The nice tea lady let me smell jasmine-scented Silver Needle. It smells beautiful, quite lovely. But it's not something I want to pour hot water over and drink.
> 
> So there is white tea that is grown in India. But many people say it isn't _real_ white tea, that the only white tea is grown in China. So the idea is that Mycroft and Sherlock re-locate from (fictional) China to (fictional) India to start their lives fresh.
> 
> As always, things take longer than anticipated. Next chapter will be the final (E-rated) one.


	15. Happily Ever After (Part 2)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our couples unite and reunite, respectively. Explicit.

Sherlock and John spilled into the room, giggling.

“I don’t know that we really _look_ like cousins,” said Sherlock. “But perhaps the sovereigns improved his powers of observation. Maybe _kissing_ cousins.”

Sherlock cupped John’s jaw with one hand and looked longingly at her mouth. She leaned down and pressed her lips to John’s smiling ones. They curled their arms around each others’ necks and drew closer, mouths open and searching.

 

John pulled away.

“I love you, Sherlock,” she said.

Sherlock’s eyes widened.

“Your voice!” They squealed, and Sherlock picked John up and spun her around.

“Which treatment worked? This is important, John. We must document the recovery and perhaps, in our new home, we can manufacture the remedy and sell it.”

John laughed. “I tried them all, but the last two seemed to make the greatest difference.”

Sherlock nodded and paced a little, fingers tapping her mouth.

“Sherlock...or should I call you Rosalind?”

Sherlock huffed and made a dismissive gesture. “You call me Sherlock; therefore, my name is Sherlock.” She wrapped her arms around John’s waist. “Say it again.”

“I love you, Sherlock.” John’s voice was low and soft with just a hint of rasp.

“I love you, too, John.” Sherlock’s gaze turned hungry as she looked down at John’s body and ran her hands over John’s buttocks, squeezing them and pulling her closer.

“Sherlock, I’ve been travelling for three days. I’d like a wash before...”

“Allow me,” said Sherlock.

 

 

“So tell me,” said Sherlock. “What happened with Harry?”

John sat in the bathtub while Sherlock scrubbed three days of grime from John’s skin with a large sponge.

John leaned back against the back of the tub and sighed.

“He recovered. After all the drama, some villagers were quite sympathetic to us and gave us some commissions, which we filled. So, for once in recent memory, we were ever-so-slightly flush.” Sherlock drew the sponge along John’s arms. John closed her eyes. “Then, I woke up one morning and he and the money were gone. Left a note nailed to the door, which I had Master Michael read to me, since I am not supposed to be able to read myself, of course. Said he didn’t want to be reminded of all his mistakes and he wanted to start over somewhere new, make a fresh start. He was sorry, but he felt like this was his last chance...at happiness. He just left.”

The sponge moved to John’s torso. John shook her head.

“Right about that time, Baron Lestrade took very ill, very quickly and died. Baron Stamford was a godsend. He basically took over the two estates. It took a while for the papers to be signed and officiated, but, in the end, he gave us half the value in cash and put the other half in trust, for Harry—if he ever returns—and Master Donovan. Jasmine and I decided to take a page from your book and travel as men to find you and your sister in the Imperial City.”

“Jasmine?”

“You don’t think she calls herself ‘Mother’?” scoffed John. “I think my breasts are quite clean now, Sherlock. Thank you.”

“Just checking,” said Sherlock, nipping the side of John’s neck. John reached a hand back to hold her there and she bathed the spot with lips and tongue.

“Master James?” asked John.

“Dead.”

“Adler’s Daughter?”

“ _Irene_. Not dead. Though Master James tried.”

“You saved her.”

Sherlock hummed noncommittally and nudged John so that her body moved forward and her head tilted back. Sherlock poured water over John’s head and began to wash her hair. Finally, Sherlock said.

“I can’t find it in myself to hate her. Or wish to destroy her.”

“After what she put Harry through, I can.” Sherlock rinsed John’s hair. “She left us there to die, Sherlock.”

“She gave us the key, John.” Silence descended on the room, both women lost in their own thoughts.

“I’m clean,” said John after a while. She rose from the water. “You know, Sherlock, I’ve never been out of the village, and now I am on a boat to foreign land. It’s a little bit terrifying.”

Sherlock cocooned John in a towel and dried her skin. “Don’t be scared. You’re not alone. You have me, John, always and forever.”

“And you have me, Sherlock, as a friend and...” The towel dropped. Sherlock fell to her knees and planted a kiss below John’s navel. John looked down, eyebrow raised, eyes darkened. She brushed Sherlock’s hair. Then, Sherlock rose, scooping John up in her arms. She carried John into the bedroom.

“I dreamed of this, you,” whispered Sherlock.

“Me, too.”

John pushed back into the centre of the bed, and Sherlock leaned forward over her. She kissed John’s lips and then nuzzled affectionately at her neck.

“Since the moment I first saw you...” said Sherlock, licking John’s shoulder and her scar.

“I should have known that my life would be turned upside down, the minute you fell out of that tree!”

“Most fortuitous demonstration of gravity.”

Sherlock’s mouth closed around John’s nipple. John sighed.

“Yours wasn’t the only world turned upside down,” said Sherlock into John’s cleavage. “I watched you please yourself and wanted nothing more than to please you. To know you. To talk to you. I never _wanted_ to talk to anyone. I spent my life virtually alone. Except for Mycroft. It was what protected me. You ripped that notion to shreds in an instant.”

“When I smelled that hideous perfume on you, I realized I was jealous, not just angry. Oh, _Sherlock_. More of that.” Sherlock sucked harder at John’s nipple and massaged the other breast.

“I’m going to learn everything you like, John. Everything you like that you don’t know you like. There is an ancient text from the land of our destination that is quite _thorough_ in its cataloguing of possibilities. Of course, geared toward more traditional couples, but I think we can make the necessary modifications. I have a copy somewhere in these trunks, which we can consult if we run short of _organic_ inspiration.”

“You and your encyclopaedias!”

Sherlock drew back up to kiss John on the lips. Then, she dipped to trail kisses down John’s abdomen.

“How long is the journey?” asked John, panting as Sherlock licked her hip bones.

“Fortnight.”

“Plenty of time.”

Sherlock hummed. She licked and kissed John’s core until John was begging.

“ _Sherlock_.” John turned on her stomach, and Sherlock plastered herself to John’s back. She licked and bit at John’s neck.

John whimpered. Sherlock pushed up slightly on her arms and rocked her hips into John’s arse.

“ Sherlock!”

“John!”

With one arm, John reached back frantically.

“I’m here, I’m here,” Sherlock cooed. “I’ll always be here, John.” She covered John’s body with her own and sank her teeth into John’s neck as they came.

 

 

When they entered the suite, Jasmine raised her eyes at the erotic noises emanating from the closed door.

“Well,” said Mycroft blandly. “Ahem...” She looked nervously around the room. Repairing to the bedroom seemed a tad premature at the moment, but remaining here and listening to _that_ was out of the question.

“I would appreciate a wash,” said Jasmine, “if convenient.”

“Most convenient and logical,” said Mycroft, relaxing at being given a task, some direction. “I’ll prepare it for you and then allow you some privacy.” Mycroft restrained herself from bowing.

Jasmine smiled. “Thank you.”

As the water ran, Mycroft placed a bar of soap beside the tub. Then, she had a flash of inspiration. She smiled and mumbled, “Father was right. When all else fails, there’s always _tea_.”

Jasmine stood at the doorway to the bedroom, body and head wrapped in large towels. Her eyes widened.

“It’s beautiful.”

Candles cast a soft light on the bed, but the most notable feature of the room was the scent of jasmine and tea.

“I thought I might recreate our first encounter at the pavilion,” said Mycroft. Two flat sheets decorated the bed; between them, Mycroft had sprinkled some of tea that Jasmine had gifted her.

Mycroft moved behind Jasmine and brushed her lips across Jasmine's damp hair.

“This is much better, Mycroft. I’m not nervous at all.” Mycroft pressed a smile against Jasmine's neck and turned her. Jasmine let the towels drop and twined her arms around Mycroft’s neck. They kissed and did not stop kissing, not when Mycroft hoisted Jasmine off the ground, not when Jasmine locked her ankles at Mycroft’s back, and not when Mycroft lay her down in the centre of the bed. Mycroft broke the kiss briefly to remove her own clothing and resumed her position. Hands were everywhere, relearning, rediscovering, exploring the contours and textures of each other anew.

“You are so improbably soft, Jasmine. As hard as I am, that’s how soft you are,” whispered Mycroft. She licked the swells of Jasmine’s breasts. “I want to drown in it.”

“Dive in,” teased Jasmine, running a hand over Mycroft’s sinewy figure.

Mycroft did.

 

 

“I’m told in the land of our destination, there are instruments, devices,” said Mycroft, two fingers pumping steadily in and out of Jasmine’s dripping cunt, “that enhance the experience.” Mycroft teased Jasmine’s clit gently with her thumb.

“More. Than. This?” panted Jasmine, sweat decorating her forehead. She clung to Mycroft, tightening her muscles around Mycroft’s fingers and revelling in the delicious tendrils of pleasure curling inside her. She shuddered and came with a soft cry.

She curled a hand around Mycroft’s neck and whispered, before their mouths met, “Let me wreck you, Mycroft.” Mycroft’s eyes darkened, she swallowed loudly and nodded.

“Now who feels like a blushing virgin?” Mycroft asked, her voice slightly higher-pitched than normal.

“Don’t worry, my Dear,” said Jasmine with a smile and a raised eyebrow, imitating Mycroft’s high-born tone, “You’re in most expert hands.”

Both laughed.

 

Jasmine was tongue-deep in Mycroft’s cunt when she felt her lover’s control snap. Then, she was on her back and her mouth and tongue were being ridden roughly. She gripped Mycroft’s buttocks tightly and licked with abandon. She shifted Mycroft’s weight slightly and gave a couple licks to her rim while shoving two fingers into her cunt. Mycroft pitched forward with Jasmine’s name on her lips and collapsed. She turned and looked sheepishly at Jasmine.

“I’m afraid that was less than chivalrous...”

“It was beautiful. I love when you come undone. I love you, Mycroft. I have—all this time.”

“I never forgot you, my Dear. Never forgot a single moment of our time together. I am yours. Forever and always.”

“I’m still not convinced this isn’t a dream, and I’ll wake up back in the village, alone.”

“You were supremely brave to have made the journey and left behind all that you knew for an unknown. I am fully aware of that, Jasmine. Please put aside all anxiety about the future. We will face it all together.”

“Together.”

They smiled and held each other close.

 

 

Late morning found the four in the sitting room.

“I have heard Sherlock’s account of her experience in the East,” said Mycroft. “But I am eager to hear it from outside vantage points. Her perspective, I know, is skewed.”

Sherlock narrowed her eyes at her sister.

“Well, I want to hear what happened to Master James and Adler’s Daughter after they fled,” said Jasmine.

“And I want to hear what _exactly_ got Sherlock exiled in the first place,” added John, with a mischievous grin.

“I think this storytelling calls for tea,” said Mycroft.

“Yes, yes!” cried John and Jasmine. John said, “I think Sherlock should make it.” Everyone—but Sherlock—agreed. Sherlock huffed.

“Absolutely,” said Jasmine. “I made her enough tea in the village. Time to return the favour.”

“Capital idea. Since her return from the East, Sherlock has thrown herself into her experiments, which have sometimes taken the form of inventions. She has actually developed a device to boil water in small confined spaces. I think we should make use of her apparatus.”

John and Jasmine cheered. Sherlock huffed again but rose and went to the trunks. When she held up the device, Jasmine and John made appropriate noises of appreciation and wonder. Sherlock preened.

“Where did you get the idea for that?” teased John.

“Perhaps someone’s tiny makeshift laboratory,” said Sherlock.

“Well, we have a myriad of teas from which to choose,” said Mycroft, gesturing to the trunks. “The finest from every corner of the realm. What’s your preference?”

“Is there any question?” asked Jasmine, looking at John. John shook her head.

“Silver Needle!”

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my longest story to date. I know many of you write 20k, 50k, hell 100k stories without problem, but, for me, this story has been _epic_ , so if you've been with it from the beginning, 'Thank you.' And if you're reading this three years from now and like it, 'Thank you.' 
> 
> Leaving the door open if I want to do some Kama Sutra-inspired naughty-times once they get to (fictional) India.


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